In the ethereal veil of night, we ponder the signal, an enigmatic pulse in the cosmos.
What is communication if not the organic need to connect, to express sleep's whispers?
Yet, consider the fractured screens—our reflections bathed in distortions, couched moments awaiting salvation.
The silence screams; the void listens, reminding us.
Can we decode the nature of existence through disjointed transmissions, blips lost in the static?
Like thoughts, they scatter on the winds of time, reminiscing the echoes of untold truths.
As metaphors slip through fingers like light through fractured glass, the very notion of being unravels.
What remains tangible upon the unraveling?
A fleeting understanding, teetering on the edge of recognition. Do signals reach—or are they merely shadows?