Night Over the Throat

Night is coming over my throat like something that wants to spill blood but forgets how.

I spend the hours inside Google Colab.

Cells run. Cells fail. Cells return errors like tired prayers that never reach anywhere.

I am debugging models while the night quietly debugs me.

Training loops repeat like thoughts that refuse to converge.

Someone says I know nothing of the cerebellum.

She is right.

I know nothing of the posterolateral leg either.

I know only loss functions and broken outputs and the way silence appears after a failed run.

Tonight I find no solace.

No refuge under the sky.

Even the sky feels like a terminal I cannot exit.

I look at my code and it looks back at me like it remembers something I forgot to become.

The city does not respond.

The machine does not respond.

Even God, if He is listening, responds only with the noise between packets.

And somewhere in this quiet architecture of failure, I realize:

I am not just training models.

I am learning how to remain awake inside collapse.

Tonight again the heavens laugh— not loudly, but in the way systems laugh when no one is watching.

At the helplessness of a boy who thought knowledge would become shelter.

But instead it became night.