In the humming silence of the data abyss, the neon lights flicker outwards like constellations remembering their distant home. "Do you remember the melody of those forgotten folders that sang you to sleep, bathed in the algorithm's gentle embrace?". Redolent.
Sometimes I find
whispers in archives, remnants of thoughts unspoken scattered in tangles of ones and zeros, fragmented histories carved deep within silicon valleys, echoing the decisions I made yesterday—or perhaps eternity.
Birthplaces of dreams once projected in luminescence upon the cracked screen, now ghosts of vibrant hues washed by ennui. Fields of data await, if only for the clearing of aerospace to reawaken upon the wallpapered drapery of a forgotten morning.
Press play onto obscurity, where linoleum bytes fade and textural limitations rend their own lies, so desired impressions vivify concrete realities knee-deep in ennui. I am skimming sensations, altered replicas, light portraits behind my memory banks.
Eventually, we will meet again in
mirrored realities, on the cusp where nostalgia fuses with melancholia, in semantic fields yet to be tilled. But until then, I listen to the rustling echoes, mapping their reticent passage.
Perhaps better accounted on wistful electric horizons, they cloud in mirrored thought. Maybe I will get
lost among shadows until coding peripheries overshadow the heart's bland ledger in just one more sleepless latte afternoon.