What if our thoughts are merely electric whispers slipping past the tight net of understanding? Transmission understood, and yet lost, like letters rehearsed inside an empty envelope.
Absurdity rests its heavy head on the shoulder of quiet solitude. Here, in the labyrinth of worn pages, I ponder the transmissions of squirrels negotiating peace treaties in their tree-dappled kingdoms.
An unsolicited exploration of invisible threads spills gibberish into the cosmic void, where it hangs—an essence of half-picked berries, delightful yet very much rotten.
Even rain has something to say—its rhythm drums against the concrete, each drop an impromptu atonality serenading the distracted detachment of life.
And the old analog radio transmits its soulful interference, memories harvested from a garden of abandoned frequencies.