Interstice

The toaster whispers at dawn, orange jewels stolen from the pockets of memories. Beneath the surface,
unwritten tales burden the books—all combinations unknown. Checkered baggage found at fauna's gate,
graphed incongruities lead to the feeding ground for neon moths. Are you but a prisoner of cascading pixelations?
+273 scripts gather in forgotten silence, beacons of discontent burst through the night—a shivering crescendo.