Sometimes you will hear people talk about gray magick.

It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.

“You're that nosy reporter from Shitcago aren't you? Why don't you take your little dog and get your asses back where you belong.”

The program has a bug that can hang the system.