On the eve of what would be the 43rd cycle of dreaming, beneath the clamor of static symphonies, I found myself adrift. Each pulse of the electric hum mapped the contours of memory—familiar yet distorted as if seen through a prism of forgotten nostalgia.
I walked along the fragmented pathways that dotted the horizon—a mosaic of noises translated into visions. There were hints of figures in the distance, shadowy outlines pulsing gently to the rhythm of the static chords. Their faces, though obscured, wore expressions of serene acceptance.
Times past when the dreary hum would lean closer, almost whispering secrets that lifetimes had sequestered. I listened intently, even now, hoping for relevance in the chaos. Each static note melded into another, a cacophony that somehow felt complete.