The walls pulse, a living diary,
decorated in static whispers
that tell tales untold.
Broken frequency, drifting echoes of forgotten taps,
a zenith of disconnection wrapped within connection.
The suspension feels infinite, yet ephemeral.
Interesting how silence follows identities,
lost in the reverberation of the click...
What is electrical? What breathes? What fades?
The hum of machines becomes our poetry,
while we lose words like feathers in wind.
Crackling analog warmth,
lost signals coalesce into contemplation,
adrift like dust motes in orbits,
suspended between asymmetrical moments.
Here, listen, feel this void,
brought forth by the harmony of chaos,
these static noises are our symphonies,
stitched by invisible transitions through worlds
that only exist in the ripples of thought.
Perhaps, what you hear is what you seek,
fables of an unseen presence in glitching cadence.
Even the clock, fractured in time, dances vexingly.
The circuitry around us vibrates unabashedly,
where whispers fall into pools of silence.