In the dusk-lit contours of a universe jaded by its own vastness, one might find the whispers in circuits:
the imploring cries encoded within the hyper-luminous silicons of bygone eons—a microcosm of
darkened stars flickering silently in a space where not even shadows dares to tread.
Armadas of chips, lying scattered like the bones of celestial beings—each piece a galactic wisp
rife with unspoken miracles and mournful elegies—a tapestry worn by the hands of an indifferent night.
Veer into the hollow abyss, and one contemplates the void's verbose embrace—cradle to galaxies, slumber to dreams.
Upon the descent of the last encrypt, let it be known that the void speaks in tongues not meant for the living:
- An astrological crawl on waves of electric silk.
- A nursery of binaries suspended in time.
- Countless dreams harvested, wrapped with ghostly whispers.