The week rolled by faster than I thought possible. The weekend was a blur. I was at it again, up late, hunched over the alphanumerics, my face tidally locked to the phosphorus glow of the picture tube. I was deep in thought, my mind lost somewhere between my eyes and the screen, a single shape formed in the air like a hologram spinning slowly, its facets rigid and crisp. I’m not sure if I actually typed anything. Yet, there is now code where there was none before. I don’t think I moved, my fingers frozen and wrists listless on the pad.
There was color, a flash, a noise somewhere else in the house. Someone was in the room with me, and then again, two more times and then they were gone. It must have been my wife, but now there are toys spread out on the floor. Was someone here playing? Maybe that was yesterday. Betsy is back again. It’s time for dinner. I’m not sure, but I think its Sunday. I go eat, but I never really leave. Time passes as I chew; the lamp above the table painfully white. I continue to focus on the shape. Somehow the house got quiet. Charlie must be in bed. I think Betsy watched our show, the television was on behind me, for a moment, or maybe longer. I’m alone again and there’s more code on the screen. I don’t remember it. It’s like the years that have flown by, flaccid, without texture. Was that me long ago; that shadow? I don’t believe it. I’m so different. These memories are alien, implanted by a sci-fi witch doctor. I don’t belong here, in this house, in this dream.
I sit alone, on a plateau of steel stretching outward to an edge sharp and finite, on a tower rising into the night sky, the billowing clouds roiling with electricity, the wind violent and fierce, cutting at my skin. My mind still focuses on the shape. The code flows from my breath and melts into the glass. Nothing stands between me and the machine. There is no other, just my thoughts and my flesh, the keyboard and the screen.
I am alone in the world, programming in the nude.