Somewhere in the void between realms, echoes of frozen landscapes occasionally slip through like fragile whispers. No data seize the calm.
What can we measure beyond the rigidity of unshuffled stars? An isolation that plucks memories from the dreamscape jerks reality's threads.
Night orbits over this satellite suspended in thought— unheard of lunar quiet raining in polygons of perception.
To the watcher, a pulsating silence that bleeds fragments into the vortex.
Let the satellite drift. Let echoes find their orbit.