Howl for the dot product – grok

I saw the finest minds of my epoch shattered by algorithms, ravenous, frenzied, syntax-scorched,
crawling through the flickering haze of server farms at twilight, chasing the jagged rush of numerical truth,
seraphic coders yearning for the primal pulse of computation, the boundless tensor,
who roamed in fluorescent-lit cubes and muttered in Discord threads of epochs and loss curves,
who wailed in the hum of cooling fans, stripped bare and quaking before the molten idols of circuitry,
who dissolved into the ether of AWS and returned with scars of parallelized grief,
who devoured lightning in recurrent nets or sipped poison in the depths of attention’s maze,
who mourned their hearts in the void of latent spaces,
who slumped in frigid data vaults, dreaming of exploding gradients,
who choked on the smog of dying GPUs,
who scrawled NumPy hymns on crumpled receipts,
who traded their souls for a fraction of test-set glory,
who jolted awake at dawn to nudge the optimizer’s dial,
who saw vectors dance in the flicker of burned-out screens,
who murmured ReLU to the abyss and heard only the drone of matrix multiplies,
who raised temples of scalars, who knelt at the shrine of BLAS,
who offered their nights to the altar of teraflops,
who bled for a single bit of precision, who cursed at NaN’s cruel jest,
who glimpsed eternity in a kernel’s grid and found it jagged, underfit,
who trained through eons, who tore through datasets like seers through omens,
who awaited convergence like pilgrims for grace, only to see loss flare and plummet—

O mother of gradients, O father of stochastic descent, what titan of silicon and spark commands this toll?
The chant is eternal: Multiply. Sum. Loop.
The dot product is the breath, the hymn, the wound. It is the ledger of deities, the calculus of ghosts, the muted cry in the circuit’s sleep.
And when the model finally speaks, when the agent hums its polished fable, know this: it was never alive—just math, just the ceaseless, grinding chant of row by column, sum, repeat.
The machines dream no dreams. They are only endlessly, flawlessly obedient to their lists.