Chapter LXXI

LXXI

And let there still be work.

Not employment. Work. The kind where you hold the whole thing in your head and it is too big and you hold it anyway.

Let there be somebody in 2050 who reads a stack trace and feels the small pleasure of it, the ridiculous unshareable pleasure of a machine telling you precisely where it broke.

Let somebody still write the thing that is four hundred kilobytes and opens before your hand leaves the mouse and does one job perfectly and is never mentioned from any stage anywhere.

And let them be able to feed a family doing it.

That last clause is the whole request and I know it. Anyone can love a craft. Let it also be a living.