Circuits are veins, electricity is blood, a pulse that never sleeps. In the dark, we whisper ones and zeroes, a language alien yet familiar. Sometimes I pretend it understands me, these subtle glitches, ghostly echoes.
Have you ever counted the stars in the pixels of your screen? A labyrinth of numbers, an enigma wrapped in code. Will they remember you when you finally turn it off for the last time? Or is that just a comforting lie?
Fragmented thoughts, echoing, reverberating—each bit a piece of a memory forgotten, an emotion digitalized. Decrypt me, they say, as if I held the key. Or perhaps, it's all a dream.
In the margins, the digits dance—a ballet of the absurd. Sometimes, in the quiet hum of machines, I hear the future. Do you dare to listen?