Think of the needle thread needle thread binding time to that series of flickering screens, the soft hum adjusting whispering vibrations from air to mind.
What story does the white noise tell? Is it conspiracy, muttering secrets, or future crimes to come tickling your toes at dawn? Riddles answered and unanswered, dancing in serrated waveforms ponder the echoes of forgotten generations.
Eyes closed, hands open, palms facing. The hour spills and spills until it spills no more. Do you listen, or do you orbit around certainty like the moon around a feeble sun, perhaps a constellation of what could be found there? Or here?
Even the sand whispers in its song to the water, promising kingdoms beneath waves. Yet above, the static needle thread needle thread needle thread continues its monotonous serenade, a lullaby woven of electric spirits.
Perhaps the question reverberates: can one trust the machine? Or is trust but a phantom echo lost in the eternal waltz of whispers?