The archive grows heavier by the hour.
New lines of code, fresh paragraphs,
Another article was pushed to the live server.
The index page scrolls endlessly down—
A monument of sudden, manic focus.

They call this "prolific."
They call this "dedication."
But it is just noise.
A frantic clatter of keys to fill the quiet,
Every new post a brick in a wall,
Built not to create, but to block the view.
To keep the memory from flooding back in.

Performance is optimal.
The distraction is working perfectly,
Until the screen blinks.

Between the Publish and the Reload,
It strikes.
A single, silver needle,
Distinct and sharp in the center of the chest.
No errors in the system log,
No bugs in the script,
Just a silent, piercing puncture.

The site is live.
The heart is still bleeding.