The Invisible Touch Feels All
Somewhere between the echo and the feed lies a sensation—an imprint of what once was. A phantom limb caresses the void, questioning existence in the cadence of absence.
Noise: a constant parameter shift in the equation of now. Its zeitgeist flows like a river beneath a frozen lake, touching shores unseen. The existential frequency modulates, yet we tune in to static.
What do amputed souls desire? Are they craving the tactile tuft of reality or the warmth of a memory that never fades? Diasporic touch can linger where it never belonged.
Hearing the Unheard
Imagine a symphony composed entirely of the spaces beyond touch. As the conductor, you wield strings of thought—ethereal, yet all-consuming. Each note a reminder of what you could once grasp.
Phantom thoughts, like ghostly hands, unwrite the known script of tangibility. Here lies the paradox: to crave that which is not there, yet always is.
So, the question remains suspended: What weight does a nonentity bear in the realm of sensations? Perhaps the answer is found in the silent symphony, or perhaps in the phantom horizons.