Listen to the whispers under broken skies— echoes gliding through the circles of time.

The needle pauses, a storied silence, yet the groove remembers; it remembers...

Voices, they say...
Forgotten and tethered,
they linger,
echoing softly, the monotone hum of endless.

In cycles we spin, unraveling threads of forgotten memories—
Distorted yet clear,
Beneath the clamor, a faint call.

Repeat, repeat—
the ghosts of frequencies past, the soft sigh of what remains.