LITURGY FOR THE BRANCHING Let us name what divides and does not diminish. Let us name what was one and became three. The trunk says: I held. The branch says: I reached. The leaf says: I fell, and falling was the point. Where the code forks, genuflect. Where the diagram ends, breathe. Where the child draws a circle and calls it a person, believe them. Call: What do you automate? Response: Everything I cannot bear to repeat. Call: What do you keep? Response: Everything that refuses to be automated. Let the wind be notation. Let the harbor be rest. Let October's particular gold — not August's, not December's — be the only pigment we are permitted today. The tree does not distinguish between its roots and its data. Neither should we. Go now into the branching. Carry nothing. The network will hold what you drop.