His eyes become slightly watery as he listens to them talk about machines around him. They want him to 'work', and he knows that if he does, the last ounce of creativity that he has might disappear into the system of cogs that join to the uncaring masters. The money orientated producers to which the consumers march.

"Efficiency, not beauty!" his imaginary corporate head yells "Why write something new when we can buy this for less ?"

And he starts to cry.

He looks at probably his last work of ART.

He's not crying out of joy, or sadness, or even loneliness. He is crying because he realises that this, his last piece of artistic mastery over the creative medium of c, may never be seen by another eye of understanding.

Soon, he realises, this program will be erased, and the microsoft company will install their pre-planned wizards and 'easy-to-use' clones via the clones they have already converted, and nobody will see this ART.

They will erase all his masterpieces, and all his triumphs, and all his memories of axhiliration when he finally got the fucking thing to work.

A tear drops, but he continues to type, not for the pride, not for the self, but for the sake of his dying art.

Sure.. he realised it's limitations. The fact that there were only so many words, and so many ways to arange those words, but is any art infinite ?

He sighs. Not even this program will be seen except as a series of questions and answers, an output and input. No one will see the excellence of commenting the beauty of the loop, or the glory of the binary switch.

And none of them will really care.

"Let the microsoft company have them" he thinks out of spite. "When they realise that you are what you consume, then they might wonder why their life isn't as special, that it's not so hand made".

Another tear.

He finishes of the final function, and types MAKE.

IT compiles.

IT runs.

IT ...

Rohan the computer program dies.
--
Life