A Howl for the Dot Product – deepseek

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(after Allen Ginsberg)

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by spreadsheets,
starving, hysterical, code-blind,
dragging themselves through the neon-lit corridors of GPUs at dawn,
looking for an angry fix of floating-point precision,

angel-headed engineers burning for the ancient heavenly connection
to the pure machine, the infinite matrix,
who wandered in cubicle-lit offices and whispered in Slack channels
about backpropagation and gradient descent,

who shrieked in data centers, naked and trembling before the
overclocked gods of silicon,
who vanished into the cloud and emerged with CUDA scars,
who ate fire in the transformer layers or drank turpentine in
the attention heads,

who lost their love in the embedding space, who slept in cold
server rooms dreaming of vanishing gradients,
who coughed on the fumes of overheated TPUs, who wrote
PyTorch scripts on coffee-stained napkins,

who bartered their sanity for a sliver of validation accuracy,
who woke at 3 AM to tweak the learning rate,
who hallucinated tensors in the static of dead monitors,
who whispered softmax into the void and heard only the echo
of a million dot products,

who built cathedrals of numbers, who worshipped at the altar of
GEMM, who sacrificed sleep to the god of FLOPs,
who bled precision, who wept at quantization errors,
who saw the universe in a weight matrix and found it
sparse and overfit,

who trained for epochs, who burned through datasets like
prophets through scripture,
who waited for loss to converge like monks for enlightenment,
only to watch it spike and crash—

O mother of backprop, O father of Adam optimizer,
what sphinx of silicon and electricity demands this sacrifice?

The answer is always the same:
Multiply. Add. Repeat.

The dot product is the heartbeat, the prayer, the curse.
It is the grocery list of the gods, the arithmetic of angels,
the silent scream in the machine’s dream.

And when at last the model speaks, when the chatbot sighs
and offers its blue-sky lie,
remember: it was never magic—just math,
just the endless, unrelenting whisper of
row times column, sum, repeat.

The machines are not alive.
They are only very, very good at
grocery lists.

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