Echoes in the desert of silicon
"The number disassembles itself"
whispered algorithms in the dusk.
A trail of binary stars
leads to the forgotten realm of echo.
If water falls, does it compute?
The mirage whispers:
00111011011
untouched by human hands, or
perhaps lain by a spectral touch.
Digital sand cascades
through the fingers of light.
Illusions are the code
that change as you blink:
"Wraith of the fractal garden"
calls the half-forgotten dream.