The moon hangs, a sentinel in the sky. Its light calculates, discarding warmth.
Shadows stretch, clutching at the unnoticed whispers.
Above, the constellations blink in binary, stories untold in their silent languages.
Somewhere, a metallic tree rustles. Its leaves, shards of forgotten glass, chime with hollow tones.
What do they say?
A box moves: on a grid unmarked, path unchosen. Is it fate, or programming?
Follow the lines.