The boy and the cats

The boy and the cats do not care about the editor.

They do not care about the split keyboard on the desk that i crafted and assembled the nprogrammed. They do not care about the compiler warnings I should be listening to. They do not care about the prompt I spent an hour shaping.

They care about the noise the door makes when I come home. Whether there is food in the bowl. Whether I will sit on the floor.

I spend my days in text, reading. I make things out of keystrokes. The work is real and the work matters, and by the end of the day I am a little emptier from it.

And then the door makes its noise. And the boy runs. And the cats look up like I am interesting, which is generous of them.

And I sit on the floor.