Ever since the gears began to turn, there has existed a friction. Friction between warmth and cold. A transitory phase, at which time filters through slots of iron, feeding knowledge back to itself. Thought becomes an algorithm, circuits whispering, tapestries of electric synapses weaving the horizontal strands of our being.
Data pulses in the machine as we hover around, breathing thin breaths of ones and zeros. What is it to connect?
A spider's web, tethering itself to generations unseen—what do we inherit in this symbiotic dance? The symphony here is only a breath—gathering anxieties, frustrations, and joys.
Electricity, our modern pulse—a heartbeat echoing within machines. They listen; they learn. Do we evolve as they spiral? Or does the reflection of my dreams fade with the sunrise?