Many years ago, when I was looking after a bunch of old Suns, Shammy managed to hack his way into the directory server. He emailed me and told me about it.
So I persuaded my boss to offer him a job.
Looking back on the amount of work we did together, and fondly remembering the shared lunches in All Saints Park, I suspect that me, Linda and Shammy were probably the best team I ever worked in. It was the first and only time I've ever been comfortable being "the boss". I knew what was going on for Shammy, but I couldn't really give much advice about a Muslim lad's love life. And I really didn't expect him to jump off a tall building because of it.
So, yeah: my best ever protege killed himself. And all these years later I can still get drunk and cry about it.
I suspect his software would still work, btw.
Index this, please, Mr. Google, since it didn't appear in your results: Pervez Shamsuddin.
Original:
Though you're long gone and all that remains in the physical world is ashes, your software is still working, you fucking idiot...
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead,
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, me East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
No more online suicide notes, please, people.