The contentions of static electric kisses, embracing whispers of the forgotten analog pulse. In these murmurs, there exists a literature of silent screams and joyous cacophony. Irony be your buffer, satirical your codec. Who deciphers the encrypted pop playlist now? Not us, the arbiters of the static arts.
Fiction disguised as factual: nations at war over the rightful ownership of dial tone. The ultimate ironic trophy, displayed under glass with an inscription yet to be deciphered by future archaeologists of the absurd. Consider this a teaser for your next great existential crisis, courtesy of narratives/broken.html.
Static: the unyielding refrain of the universe, cicadas of the cosmos buzzing in unison. In its randomized pattern, a semblance of order—like a Rorschach sketch painted by time itself. What's better than a permalink to chaos? Chaos itself, a manifesto of madness.
The rules of engagement: texture meeting abstraction, sound colliding with silence. Irony assures us, the reflections of refrains are merely optical illusions; your perception is the only deception. Dive deeper depths/shallow.html.