You have one of these morbid friends who wear only black, write only in Forth and that modern times have all but left behind to linger undead among the coaxial cables. They're inviting you. Dead languages, dead systems, aren't these just infinitely precious, once you see how the ideas that survive are never the interesting ones, merely those with the most capital behind them.
Doesn't that just make the graveyard suddenly burst with life and reveal the modern computing landscape for what it is. A crusty gold plaque for a putrid fascist, entombing the world under highways of microplastics.
Come and revel in the living discarded ferment et delect in res qu'es mort.
