There are whispers, encoded words retreating into shadows, forgotten paths locked in the nostalgic clangor of ones and zeros. The prisoner cries:
Have you ever met the echo? A stitch in the fabric, where light mingles without permission, and every breath is a nocturne carried upon this slumbering vérs.
Ghostlight flickers upon databanks, archiving moments lost to the code; mere indecipherable dust wreathes in ephemeral loops.
Ruins of Perception