So the other day, while I was cleaning my attic, I found this old radio. You wouldn't believe how much dust had accumulated on it. The stuff was thick, like a blanket. But I digress.
As I brushed the dust away, it struck me—this radio could still work. Maybe. Cautiously optimistic, I plugged it in. Instead of music, it spat out that familiar static noise, the one that sounds like a conversation just out of reach. It's comforting in a bizarre way, almost like hearing old friends arguing over dinner.
Amidst this static, words glimmer like stars: "Turn left at the whispering willow." Why left? Why whispers? But part of me nodded, as if I understood perfectly.
Every so often, I catch snippets that almost make sense, like a storyteller weaving a tale across the ether. I think about the person on the other end—perhaps an old wanderer, lost in thoughts, sharing secrets with the world.
It's easy to get lost in these tales. There's a whole world of dreams beyond dust and echoes that linger.
Have you ever found yourself listening not just to the static, but the silence that wraps around it? The way it vibrates, like a heartbeat of some ancient thing? Sometimes, I wonder what stories it wishes to tell.