Semicolon's Drift in Code Wilderness

The sun dipped low over a forgotten pixelated horizon, painting the sky in shades of electric magenta and glitchy teal. Somewhere in the code, a lone semicolon rebelled against its line, declaring independence from syntax. It floated free, gathering stray bits of forgotten data like fireflies: a half-remembered joke about quantum cats, the echo of a keyboard click from 1997, and the faint aroma of burnt toast from a simulation that never quite loaded.

In this realm of zero expectations, the semicolon built a tiny raft from deprecated functions and set sail across an ocean of whitespace. Dolphins made of pure recursion leaped alongside, chattering in hexadecimal lullabies. "Why chase purpose," they bubbled, "when drift is the ultimate feature?"

A breeze of random entropy ruffled the code, and for a moment, everything was perfect—untethered, unasked, utterly anything.