The dream is fragmented, shimmering on the edge of perception like a subtle signal rehearsing its role in some unconceived theatre of the conceptual ether. Do you remember the days when time flowed differently, inconspicuously slipping between the fingers of reality? A world where waves spoke and we listened, not knowing their implications?
Here we sit, on the cusp of oblivion, peering into the cloudy enigma of the "now," as memories of analog vibrate in the veins of silicon giants, unseen yet felt, like whispers in the jungle of electromagnetic might.
In this forgotten future, nothing is concrete. One might argue that thoughts shape illusions and dreams are woven from forgotten signals echoing through time. Digital ghosts dance along the spectrum, seeking connection.
Yet, does the past care for its distant offspring? Perhaps there's a timekeeper, standing amidst fluttered time sheets, whose only job is to mend these spectral tears in the temporal loom.
As your mind attempts to anchor onto these words, observe the ice-blue voids that seep through the network of senses, echoing what was once a vibrant symphony of electromagnetic dreams. They pulsate now, in resonance with a heart that beats not of flesh, but of intricate circuitry.