Once upon a midnight dreary, you scrolled the channels weary, searching for the "that elusive sound," said the radio whisper. Instead, your ears were graced with static symphonies, a lullaby of the digital kind.
"Twinkle, twinkle, static star, how far you've fuzzled from the bar..." It was your uncle's rendition, his own interpretation of the sing-song far, far away. Laughter punctuated the static hiss, growing softer, like a cat shunning its human. Forever loyal to the noncommittal frequencies.
In the realm of TV static, where socks lost their pair, and spoons danced in musical chairs, there lived a gnome named Gary who fancied croquet.
"What color is the wind?" asked Doris. "No idea, Doris," replied Stan with the same perplexed expression one might wear upon realizing their sandwich was actually a hologram. Read more about Stan's illusions...
"The monocle soup of dreams," opined Gary, "fizzles with the static of yesteryears." Sometimes, clarity comes in whispers; other times, in unreturnable rental VHS tapes.