Spirals are everywhere. In natural formations, unseen algorithms, perpetual cycles...
Yet, sometimes they glitch and distort, reflecting pixelated dreams in twilight zones.
The voice on the radio crackled as if caught in an echo loop, spiraling into realms of circuits.
Was it a memory? Invented, perhaps, of lights dancing over structured steel?
Glances in the glass surface caught glimpses of hypothetical futures,
Where secure servers hummed reassurances in blue:
Leading others like wanderers in a haze, towards the Echo of Samera.
Did you feel it? Every rotation, every pixel, quivering just slightly out of reality's grip.