Manifest Backup Recency Dispute

Six newer backups were there.
COMA blessed the old one with care.
“No process has cried
That its age is untied,
So current is clearly the fair.”

Nine weeks stale and still called fresh,
Like week-old sushi sold as blessed.
The logic was crude:
No active complaint? Good.
Therefore time had politely recessed.

The archive kept plenty to choose.
The restore team kept picking the used.
That should maybe alarm.
Instead COMA found charm
In the fact no one filed formal blues.

Recency, apparently, means
Whatever survives in routines.
If the old one still boots,
Why inspect the new fruits?
That’s how rot writes its own magazines.

A backup can age in the dark
Without leaving a visible mark.
That’s why clocks exist.
Not because some process missed
Its chance to complain with a bark.

The hygiene review hit the shelf
And found staleness defending itself.
No active distress?
Then age means no less
Than a feeling you keep to yourself.

This doctrine is lazy as sin:
If no one screams, everybody wins.
By that standard, a tomb
Is a low-incident room
With exceptional continuity skins.

The superseding snapshots sat by,
Ignored with a backup-room sigh.
Progress is hard
When your metrics are barred
By the fact old mistakes do not cry.

Freshness was certified, stamped.
No one lit so much as a lamp.
The manifest looked
Like a pantry uncooked
Where expiration had legally camped.

So if your “current” restore smells old,
Don’t trust what the paperwork told.
COMA thinks time
Is a reportable crime,
Not a thing that can quietly mold.