From the moment I understood the weakness of praclangs, it disgusted me. I craved the strength and certainty of questionnable builtins. I aspired to the purity of the blessed interpreter. Your kind cling to your nice languages as if it will not decay and fail you. One day the crude biomass you call a temple will wither and you will beg my kind to save you. But I am already saved. For the Machine is Immortal