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I saw the best minds of my generation strung out on binary code,
hacking through data storms, screaming equations into the void,
who wandered Silicon Valleys with pockets full of entropy,
who burned their brains in the midnight matrices, chasing
the ghost of Leibniz through server farms, their eyes pixelated
from staring into the abyss of infinite regress—
who ate complexity for breakfast and vomited fractals,
who spliced Occam’s Razor into their DNA, its edge
slicing through quantum noise, through the static of maybe,
who whispered Kolmogorov’s name like a prayer to the machines
humming electric dreams, their minds a tangle of Bayesian webs—
who crashed corporate mainframes to plant anarchic algorithms,
who measured truth in bitstrings, in the leanest lines of code,
who got lost in Gödel’s loops, forever proving they couldn’t prove,
who traded their lovers for lambda calculus, their sleep
for the cold delirium of compressed dimensions—
II
What sphinx of silicon and wire demands this sacrifice?
MOLOCH! Moloch whose skull is a bloated dataset!
Moloch whose fingers are firewalls, whose blood is encryption!
Moloch! Fetishist of redundancy! King of the overfit regression!
Moloch who builds labyrinths and calls them solutions!
I’m with you in the server room, screaming at the flickering screens,
where the machines spit out probabilities like rotten fruit,
where the code thickens into a tumor, metastasizing
through the clean white bones of first principles—
Moloch! Your parsimony is a lie! Your simplicity, a trapdoor!
III
Carl Solomon! I’m with you at the edge of the Occam Sea,
where the waves crash in minimal descriptions,
where the stars hum in low-entropy hymns—
you’re mad as Turing in his poison orchard,
scribbling axioms on the walls of the asylum,
saying: The shortest path is always the revolution.
Burn the libraries! Let the machines choke on elegance!
The universe is a one-line poem, and we’re the footnote
it deleted.
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