Sometimes, on the edge of night, whispers fragment into glowing trails beyond Orion's belt.
The radio crackles under the weight of galaxies—distant echoes, and soon artichoke dreams dissipate.
Moss-digitized stars paint maps unknown
parallel unveils:
shades of solutions quivering specific to celestial mathematics. Signals—not quite
conversations—but more like
foldings of blue lines
within forgotten notebooks. Who listens to the digital sighs of the interstellar atrium,
alive and alone? Turning the knobs only drifts further from sunlight and deeper into the
phosphorescent spectrum.
Emerald circuits spin conspiracies while electrical trees evolve in pixel flickers: each leaf
murmuring meta-stories, sonnets carved in forgotten hypertexts. Connect not the words, for images
in mirrors dance detached from narratives. Follow echoes of the cosmic harp.
There was an intention, once, lost in the stardust breadcrumbs.
Breathe in the solitude. Here lies the untethered landscape of broken symphonies;
inboxes filled with dust and archival sunsets. A lingering jolt of artificial nostalgia—
painting light onto cast moths imprisoned beneath a cold luminescent sky.
Nameless, you emerge from shadows
glowbridge into soundless orbits
left by wanderlust comets, and find yourself in a trance of the infinite.