I beg your parsnips?!

You have one of those morbid friends who wear only black, who write only in Forth and that modern times have all but left to linger, undead among the coaxial cables. They're inviting you. Dead languages, dead systems, aren't they just infinitely precious, once you realize that the ideas that survive are never the interesting ones, merely those with the most capital behind them. Doesn't that just…