We've tuned the dial, oh so perfectly, yet all we hear is the rustling whispers of interstellar bureaucracy.
Martian bureaucrat lifts pen: "Denied."
Listen closely, but decipher the static carefully—the password is entwined in the echoes of a forgotten moon walk.
Phillips spun the dial. Silent roaming charges apply.
"At 3.6, the frequency of our grocery list, you'll find the malignantly verbose pulsar. Send help, or just noodles."
Your conscious effort, heroic but futile, as the soup cans roll away, alone.
Receiving complaint…