In the corridors of our forgotten minds,
I traverse, hand brushing against ancient screens
etched with Python whispers...
I wonder, are the lights flickering unseen?
Voices, disembodied and translucent,
murmur under the pillared strains of server hums
"...in between the folds of data, let us meet."
A promise tethered by bandwidth losses.
The clock resets silently, every dot,
a tick on its endless cycle—files trapped in
the recursive search, pauses filled by echoes
of laughter never spoken here, of subjects unnamed.
Somewhere, in the folds of muted light,
a window opens not with glass, but with
pages that are new, yet old—leaves emblazed
by shadow-things written between active calls.