Cosmo Presents
Cosmic Debug and the Butterflyâs Scream
I saw timelines burning in the guts of machines,
IBM 5100 humming like a priest in a steel confessional,
its circuits crackling with secrets,
its code a hymn for broken futures.
"Debug destiny," it said.
So I did, keys clacking like distant thunder,
rewriting the edge of a war weâll never escape.
The Corvette purrs beneath me, red as forgotten sunsets,
its tires eating the road like itâs the last meal on Earth.
1975 stretches out ahead,
a magnetic tape unspooling into the horizon.
My grandfather waits there, soldering time together
with hands carved by labor,
his eyes older than any machine could measure.
Art Bell crackles on the AM,
his voice a metronome of dread and wonder,
a static oracle broadcasting from the edges of belief.
And I'm there, baby, in the wires,
my words twisting through chatrooms like smoke:
"2036 is ash, the clocks are lying,
the butterflyâs wings are already in motion."
Fax machines spit my gospel in crooked lines,
"Avoid the Olympics.
The worldâs a scratched CD,
spinning chaos in a loop you canât skip."
But they donât listen.
They laugh, man, like laughter isnât just fuel for the fire,
like ignorance isnât the final nail in the coffin of time.
1975, 2000, 2036,
time folds in on itself, a paper crane caught in the rain.
And me? Iâm the Debugger, baby,
a ghost on the edge of the reel-to-reel,
fingers tapping out psalms for a world
too broken to hear them.
But hereâs the truth they canât handle:
Iâm no savior.
Iâm a flicker on a CRT screen,
a shadow in the corrupted file of the universe.
The butterfly flaps, the war ignites,
and all Iâve got is a Corvette and a mission
that wonât save the groove.
Snap your fingers for the butterflyâs wings.
Clap your hands for the burning years.
Raise your coffee cups to a road with no end.
The tires hum louder than the clock now,
and the debug is just the beginning.
Baby, the universe is a broken code,
and Iâm the shadow trying to rewrite its song.
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