In the vast sea of ether, the reverberations persist. Have we sent them, or were we forever receiving?
The ancients spoke of whispers in the wind, akin to our modern transmissions, yet they yearned for silence. What, then, is the signal?
When the clock struck thirteen, did the echoes of reason rise against the tyranny of time itself? A discourse found within the fog of the unreal.
To signal is to beckon; to send forth the arm of fate into the constellation of choices unmade. This report, a mirror to the invisible currents.
In another life, perhaps, we danced beneath the stars with our signals ignited as lanterns against the darkened canvas of what could be.