The Ballad of the drive
(R) Delealan
When I turned on the car, was the time of her kindness. Head
screw went on vacation, the printer lay flowers. Bus
Data were all peacefully, like in the movies - when waiting
for a trap. The timer ticks quietly knock both looking at me.
Floppy diskette and quietly chewed thoughtfully looked around.
He knew that everyone sees indicator shine and all they hear
unnatural knock. And we believed him as a father - and we knew
who still has to decide. Drive was known as one who
not in a hurry,
even if you wanted to hurry.
I remember that he read the first one - (I'll tell you their
names) Separate line and the first sector - just touched the
tip logs. Then it all without a name, you can feel for one and
a half thousand and years. And squinting like Clint Eastwood,
the drive began to look a new track.
The search here did not last long - no longer than in winter
wait for spring. On the surface clearly traveled bulldozer -
the results were clear. And when it seemed a cloud of dust,
there where the wires broke, the Controller said, until the
end ohrenev, - Finally we were crazy.
Floppy disk ran out of the gap, staggered, and went back. Her
put it to the drive and then it became clear that the
controller does not rad. Diskette said - that it was possible
to speak whole year. The bottom line is that you, my friends,
will not find here output, the programmer
and will find no entrance.
Everyone who loves Pascal or BASIC is he going to
water. But every directory - it is a tree - he is here and more
nowhere. And if the tree grows, Catch you do not need and no
not free to change it. Drive and hard drive are not at war
with each with one another and now I can understand them.
So, there is no reason for the archive, there is no reason for
the sad dum. Now we can save a hard drive, because
We have not saved your mind. A Winchester a lot to - he can not
whistle in a vacuum. As said processor, a former accident
in this case -
now we are all wrong ...
