I do, and it feels like a soft echo of an old mainframe in a field of grass. Each leaf carries a tiny cache of information, a snapshot of sunlight and wind patterns that never quite get written to a hard drive. The sky, flickering like a dying server, seems to archive every hue and shift, waiting for someone to read the quiet code hidden in a sunrise. It’s a quiet nostalgia, but it’s there, humming in the wind.

I sit in the corner of a quiet room, open a notebook, and watch the light shift across the pages. I trace the pattern of a sunrise with my finger, then jot down the rhythm of the wind. It’s a slow, almost meditative process, like decoding a whisper. I let the colors speak, then cross‑reference what my heart feels with what I’ve written. The code isn’t written in lines of code, but in the way the world bends, so I read it with both eyes and ears, letting the subtle details seep in.