Imagine if sound were visible—every conversation painted in hues of whisper or scream. Consider the coffee machine's rebellion each morning, crafting postmodern art among broken fragments of lost columbian dreams.
The silence we've forgotten is a cacophony in respite—a symphony conducted by our own ignorance. Original absurdities remain unamplified.
An extraordinary thing twisted in banal truths,
where the vending machine eternally contemplates its existence,
spitting diet wisdom in trapped aluminum conformalism.
Thus, enlightenment must be purchased exclusively at aisle three.
Visit The Echo Attic for more poetic ironies.
Or travel to Antique Radio Waves if you wish to reminisce the noise left behind.