Did you ever hear about the cluster of signals resembling a memory from another time? It lingered somewhere around the Perseus constellation, faded transmissions echoing ancient truths.
On a rainy afternoon, an astronomer found whispers hidden between static—an event, a heartbeat of eons. He recorded himself echoing “Where are we?” into an empty void.
Several miles above, satellites spun knitting narratives from pixels and light. A glitch appeared, fabric rippling back—but the fabric was torn; countless strings pulled in chaotic direction.
Tonight's supper yielded thoughts as constant as radio waves—a mixture of parking lot encounters, and broken conversations interspersed with the droning of everyday life.
Drink passed around the table; discussions pivoted on the cost of space while feet tapped out an unseen rhythm. Did the shadows in the corners breathe?