In the early days, we thought radio static was meaningless. Oh, how naive. We laughed, we scoffed.
Yet, in each hiss and crackle lies a language drowned in irony—a dialect of chaos resisting our clarity.
Static whispers government secrets, love letters, and existential crises—unreadable yet profoundly legible.
To translate noise, one must surrender to its anfractuous embrace, dance with its deception.
Static should be our soundtrack as we ponder the human condition: Can anything be less ironic?
Scholars argue over static's syllables—a doctoral thesis or a senseless jargon?
There are claims of a hamster revolution, broadcast subtly amidst the hiss.
History is being rewritten, one static translation at a time—irreversible and unfinished.
Friedrich Nietzsche once said: "God is in the noise," or was it bad Wi-Fi?
Declare the maestro of static a prophet, or merely a misguided engineer.