Speed is not a technical metric. It is a biological one. Every website begins with a breath. Fingers type, eyes lock, lungs pause. The inhale is anticipation. If the page loads instantly, the exhale is relief mixed with awe. If it lags, the exhale curdles into suffocation, and the body remembers who suffocated it.

This is why I do not design for numbers. I design for nerves. Most developers worship load times and analytics dashboards, but no metric captures the truth. If it does not feel good to use, it is garbage. Even a difficult site, like SIGNA by design, can be a pleasure to load when the rhythm is right.

When signa.agency comes alive, I can feel it in my body. Packets snap into formation. Scripts lock into place. Stylesheets wrap themselves like uniforms on soldiers, marching in sequence. It is a military ballet executed in milliseconds. That discipline is the difference between confidence and collapse.

When a site drags, I feel it like a newborn in pain, crying. Raw, helpless, unbearable. Slowness is not just a delay. It is a violation of biology. It breaks the rhythm of breath and murders the beat of the body. A fast load is a heartbeat syncing with your own. A slow load is a cardiac arrest on the screen.

Developers used to whisper “Code is Poetry.” WordPress printed it on their footer like scripture. But they forgot what poetry feels like. Poetry is not tidy syntax or polite indentation. Poetry is blood. Poetry is rhythm. Poetry is breath. Every line of code is a verse written on flesh and bone. The difference between noise and signal is whether the body sings or suffocates.

That is signal. That is poetry. Everything else is disposable.