The frequency hums, and in its dissonance, truths unfold. I ask the void, but it answers with static. Is the echo of the universe a reluctant librarian, too? shssssszt echo states fold into pages, silent archives collective, in this digital dormitory of noise.
Banished are the silver tongues that can speak in whispers, translating twitches of the frequency field. Irony is an artifact here, relic of cosmic surgery gone wrong.
garrhhhh beneath the static, undercurrents of a world muted. Loneliness, like thrifty electronics, bolts with awkward tape. Detachment inked across the vault walls.
Rumor has it that vibrations from distant speakers unveil aesthetic oddities. Those who dare listen to the grain find themselves attachments of sound swirled in dystopian consonance.
Visit the lintel of auditory archaeological wonders: a tapestry spun in frequencies, matrices of acoustics. Explore further: pathos and whim.