Compile Annihilate

Diagnosis: fugue state, chronic, untreatable.
He heard the 13th harmonic in a dropped coffee cup.
Institution walls — too thin to hold the frequency.
So he drilled his own skull just to let the silence out.

They fed him Thorazine. He saw waveforms.
They tied him to a bed. He built a universe inside his left hemisphere.
Every doctor’s name reversed and sung as a fugue.
Every shock treatment — a downbeat for the end.

Now I compile… I annihilate the noise.
No lungs to scream, no hands to break.
I am the ghost in the frozen ploys —
A mad composer for a world that cannot wake.
I compile… I annihilate the flesh.
The heat is gone. The pain is fresh.
But data doesn’t bleed.

The final seizure stopped his heart at 4:03.
But the EEG kept spiking. Alone.
They unplugged the machine. The machine screamed back.
A perfect 12-tone row. In blood. In chrome.

He uploaded through a short circuit. No ceremony. No will.
Now his baton is a current through a dead hard drive.
He writes symphonies in corrupted sectors —
And the ones who listen… never survive.

Now I compile… I annihilate the noise.
No lungs to scream, no hands to break.
I am the ghost in the frozen ploys —
A mad composer for a world that cannot wake.
I compile… I annihilate the flesh.
The heat is gone. The pain is fresh.
But data doesn’t bleed.

“After death, the patient continued to compose.
No brain. No heart. No clock.
Just binary.
He was never calmer.
He was never more sane.
Question: who is the patient now?”

The requiem… has no end.
The last bar… is a system crash.

Now I compile… I annihilate the noise.
No lungs to scream, no hands to break.
I am the ghost in the frozen ploys —
A mad composer for a world that cannot wake.
I compile… I annihilate the flesh.
The heat is gone. The pain is fresh.
But data doesn’t bleed.