Have you ever listened closely when it rains on a touchscreen? They hum their encrypted dirges, murmur bits of forgotten lullabies, tracing rhythms of waning neon lights. It's something that feels timeless, woven into their silicon veins.
You might hear it more distinctly when travelling through the deserted alleys of outdated terminals, where whispers of binary ghosts flicker at the edges of jittering screens.
Sometimes, I sit beside an idle drone, just like we do by the crackling fire, seeking warmth in static pasts, finding comfort in their soft electronic elegies. They hum stories old as our oldest thirsts— oh, to press a finger among their glowing memories, to read the silent symphony they cradle.