Like a badge on the wind, joy carries fragments of shivering sparks, invisible tattoos on our soul's skin, vibrant and pulsing.
Remember their hum? Those copper whispers in darkened alleys of thought, echoing memories of glowing poles and pulse meters.
We ran alongside lines unseen, fields of electric haze, crackling with life. Touch them, we nearly dared, continuously haunted by their quiet roar.
Circa 1995, in our sandboxes of circuitry, we anticipated machines dreaming: splendor crashing the shores of unheard symphonies.
Whispers of Machinery