Windowless ships drift through unseen tides. Their hulls, whispers of resonance beneath a storm-less sky.
We listen: eons ago, dreams lodged themselves within the orbit of satellite orchids. Echoes of driftwood, echoes of droning. Unfolding endlessly.
Somewhere, the lunar cycles whisper back, tracing forgotten radio signals amongst the reeds of cosmic signal grass.
Transmission 57-Deluge: static-filled solo recalls. Timekeepers indexed under forgotten names—Juno and Maris. Rest beneath vertibre deep.
An indigo voice breaches: ephemeral constructs randomly positioned; her word awaits reaction.
Return to the waves, beneath the vanished sunlit horizon rising paramagnetic fields.
The sea thickens, each rippling quantum grain ceasing its conversation but logged in mathematics. Her clarity disintegrates.
Only the relentless optimism of cerulean threads. Drifting away the ancients' inscriptions from above.