As far as everyone else was concerned, Pete was a programmer; nobody knew he was a poet. Pete was a poet first and much later a programmer. He took the composition of a poem seriously, putting it together like a molecular biologist, letter by letter, creating a new life. But Pete’s poems were troglobites, bred for a life underground. If they were ever to see the light, it would not be his choosing. Being a programmer was a convenience, so Pete wouldn’t need to confess that he wrote about what he knew. Even you may soon be imitated, copied with defects, crawling blindly in Pete’s dark and damp cavern.