It is ten twenty-three PM, and you are staring blankly at a screen. You had something written up here, something about causality, about God, about society, and how human civilisation consists of layers built upon one another, the foundations crumbling while what was constructed atop them holds steadier than ever. There was something in it about the surrealism of even conceiving of, let alone producing a drug like krokodil, one derived from amongst other things, gasoline, a substance with decidedly no place in a world where all is driven by the pulse of great synchronized hearts, transmitted through a phantasmagoria of clockwork.
You had something, and it is gone no, because it ha just dawned upon you that it was fucking terrible. Like, really, really terrible. Attrocious even. It's not even pretentious it's just faux-philosohical wankery, shit that might look nice when you're tired and too busy mentally processing how unreasonably effective the naive bayes algorithm is when the presence of "naive" in the name of any algorithm generally means that it's actually a recreation of that bit in the book of genesis where the serpent convinces Eve to eat the apple, except Eve's some arbitrary system, the apple is an utterly attrocious complexity class you don't actually know because halfway through calculating it you already know it is shit assuming it even functions correctly most of the time, which it very well may not and the serpent is some abstract representation of delirium, naivete, and belief in a world that isn't secretly planning on doing the intellectual equivalent of l shanking you in an back alley and pawning off your kidneys for an unreasonable amount of second-hand condoms purchased from some shady vending machine in a toilet in a gas station in a bad side of town in an allegory for something or other. Point is, the naive bayes algorithm is fucking cheating and you still have nothing written. So, what the fuck are you going to do?
[]Sleep
[]Check Hacker News
[]Nixon