We all know that no-one life escapes death; life and death are given together in chirality. As a writing form, computation is technical and unnatural. Computation describes the world on its own terms and intimates the worlds most ecstatic excesses. Media art often stages computation as an imitator of life, but it is dead. What does it mean to take computation carefully by the hand? And how do we care for its own icy grasp, its own spectral care?