As a freshman on my high school's cross country team, our captain told me that to be a good runner, you needed to love pain.
I objected: a great runner could love to race, I said, and endure the pain only for the sake of competing and winning.
It's only …
(Previously.)
It's the tenth day of the third November of my life (that I am willing to admit to), and I am determined to wring some sort of high-sounding interpretation out of the cool air and damp sidewalks: perhaps a contrast, something about the events that directly prompt fundamental life …
—and the moment or more than a moment when the dam breaks, when the damned break and the void inside their skulls is filled (the atmosphere rushing in quickly, but not so quickly that one couldn't sense its motion) with the terror that is knowledge of the specter of continuity …
(Previously, previously on An Algorithmic Lucidity.) Wow, has it already been a year since last RustConf?—give or take the exact date of the event sliding a bit between years—and give a month-and-a-half of procrastination before being truly struck by the mounting realization that my opportunity to...