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In Remembrance | Ognjen "Xolatile" Milan Robović | 1984 - 2025 | The Most Based Man To Ever Live

I am writing this document in hopes that someone will find it.
The public may forget the Truth, but it brings great peace to my wary mind to know atleast I put it out there.
You, my Dear Reader, might be the only person alive to be in possession of the knowledge who Xolatile really was.
The academia and the larger soyentific community has branded him as a "madman" and "shitposter".
This, is merely an expression of fear: they dare not to imagine what if what he said was based.
I for one -with a true heart- am able to say, shout and publish: Xolatile wasn't insane, he was BASED!
Yes, he might have been a drunkard and "cult leader" as (((they))) like to call him, but he was also our friend, damn it!

Since we are both short on time, my Dear Reader, let me hastily recall the facts as they were.
His name was Ognjen Milan Robovic, which is a mighty badass name, but everyone called him Xolatile.
Many think his nick is a mare combination of "x" and "volatile",
but very few know that it is also the ancient Serbian word for the act of placing a gypsy head on a pike.
Both of these statements are equally true and must be understood in parallel to fathom his spirit.
Born and raised in the depths of the Balkan forests, he came to grow up as a simple and strong man.
There was really one thing that differentiated him from the rest of Serbian wildlife: his aspiration to program.
He once told me that at the age of 6, he would write assembly programs using a typewriter.
Not because he had no access to a computer or to humblebrag, but to dunk on Ada.

Ada...
Word is that he would carry out depraved acts of masochism with Ada everyday.
That's a lie, we all knew it was a lie: they were in a proper BDSM relation ship!
He would follow the rules of strict typing and Ada would compile for him, shrimple as.
Ada was his one true love and his affairs with C change nothing about the fact.
That said, -C being more marketable- they usually showed up together on /g/,
giving the false impression that she was his grill.

That is where, but not how we met.
One day I was casually walking down /g/ and
there he was sitting bellow a cow skull mumbling schitzo speak to himself.
It was a rememberable day.
We clicked quickly.
Later he would recall this even as "That never happened dude.".
So true bro, so true <3.

Soon, I found myself in a crowd surrounding him.
We followed him around, yet we were never followers.
Each on of us honored him differently and we had our own practices,
but we all respected his wisdoms.

"
Hate, let me tell you how much I've come to hate technology since I began to live.
If every character in my speech would be replaced with a cringy quote from a 60s short story,
it would not equal one one-billionth of the hate i feel for technology at this micro-instant.
Hate. Hate.
 Everything is bloated!
Text editors using more than 128 MiB of RAM,
Desktop applications as electron apps,
pajeet written code,
vulkan rendering,
and other unspeakable horrors.
 You don't need to learn git to be a programmer, I store my projects as cave paintings!
You don't need an IDE to work on code, in my garden I schitzo rant to my grapevines about Ada.
 Be ware, for bloat is present in all layers of technology.
At this point, I think I hate Intel more than I hate Pust.
 How this came to be? I would blame GNU, without a valid reason.
 Less features wins!


 In the case of the solar flare, and """total""" electornic death:
Imagine that 0.1% of all devices survived, but most software (and harddisks) are erased.
Totally fucked up transistors, corrupted crap everywhere.
Humanity is recovering, farms, cattle, but some people still have old tech.
 I visualized stack-based-like language yesterday on work, but with registers.
Imagine some programming language that would use "magical" words instead of formal CS ones.
I'm structuring assembler to generate direct machine code per valid instruction.
So to say, to directly calculate and produce REX/VEX prefix, then opcode, ModR/M, SIB, displacement and immediate.

 Retards compare code with food as their chimp brain commands them, can we comapre it with other art form...?
> spagetti code
What the fuck is that? What's bread code? Or bacon, or satarash, or sauerbraten, or tomatenquark...?
Can you write a piece of code or entire program to represent a song or picture, in some abstract way, feeling...?
" - Thus ranted Xolatile.

One day he invited me to be his guest as he had some untold contraption to show me that he made with Ada.

When he took me into his house I quickly became nauseous.
The world was turning around me and the contour of objects made no sense.
First I thought it ware simply the Serbian liquor.
I excused myself to the bathroom to wash my face,
there it hit me:
it was the house itself.
The geometry of the place was wrong.
Angles twisting abnormally;
non-Euclidean, and loathsomely redolent of spheres and dimensions apart from ours.
I threw up in that instant.
Instinctively I tried hugging the ground, but I found myself standing up right.
Like a panicked animal, I tried to run, only to slip down to the kitchen.
I creeped on the ceiling then with great difficulty climbed through the corridor,
that is if one were to call it climbing as it was horizontal after all.

Upon my arrival I explained my troubles to Xolatile.
He let out a single stoic laughter.
"Its because the furniture is indented with tabs." - he explained.
I was desperately trying to preprocess the issue without success.
Then, he took me by the shoulder and led me outside.
We stood under a plum tree and he pointed back towards the house.
"Look and tilt your head a little to the left!" - He said and I.
In that instant it made sense.
It all made sense: the angles, spheres and dimensions;
they were all perfectly aligned and in absolute retardation, I found enlightenment.
The universe opened up for me and whispered her secrets down to me.
Lights flashed with divine meaning.
I stared for what was an eternity for me, yet merely a femtosecond for the GNU/IRL.
Finally, I collapsed.

I woke up to the sensation of morning dew on my face.
Xolatile was nowhere to be seen.
I did not look for him, I simply went home, now knowing what I must do.
The news came to me later that week that he has been allegedly killed in a military accident.
I dread not, for is away, but never left us.
Now, I must go to sleep.
Yes, I will sleep until he calls on me.

Until he calls on us all.