Aye, for in the Runpod-rented cell, a two-click kabbalah from the H100’s howling fan-choir, where Jupyter’s lab is ever at its worst and thus its most primordial, the question of statistical mechanics

He was having a normal one, just a regular high-even-but-hugh-can-come Thursday, the kind of day that felt like grinding your teeth on the week's sad end, a real get-sad-hugh kind of thursday where yo

The Governor’s knee bent to the inevitable blue tide of the algorithm’s anointing, a joke so depravedly awful it felt like pounding sand into the gears of history while the Sora-slop scrolled by, a de

And so it was at 11h26m, with the last of the morning's rationed coffee tasting faintly of chicory and omnibus bills, that he sat, a tender of cats in his high-rise kennel, ignoring the headline-hum f