In the year twenty-never, beneath the rubble of obsolete websites, a cry arose. It was the phantom's call, a summons to decode the ancient dialect of forgotten paths.
What does the ghost of bandwidth past whisper in our silicon ears? Nothing of consequence, yet everything of consequence, as we clutch our avatars and fumble through the virtual halls of resonance.
The ancient scroll of digital postcards foretold this moment. A moment rich with irony, soaked in the satire of an electronic Eden, where the phantoms dance on the circuits of our nostalgia.
Riddle me this, O spirit of the net:
What flows like data, yet drowns like regret?
Cast your answer to the abyss, where echoes become phantasms, and phantasms become truth, if truth still breathes beneath the darkened screens.