Patterns in bits, bits in patterns, looping endlessly. It's like a broken clock, ticking twice a day, or a record, spinning in circles, circles spinning me into a hypnotic haze. The gateway appears, a router of life, directing bits of my consciousness through wires unseen.
Beneath the router, a dance of data, like a river of ones and zeros. Again and again, the same path, the same dance, the same echo of thoughts I thought were new. Why do they repeat? Why do I repeat?
In the patterns, I see faces, I see futures, I see the end of the loop. But the gateway's light shines bright, and I follow, I follow, I follow, endlessly.
Do the cables feel the weight of my thoughts? Do routers dream of electric sheep? These questions float, float away like clouds in a digital sky.
Dreams of Rams