In a world dipped in binary antiquity, the stream flows gently, carrying whispers of the forgotten tycoons of apathy, each ripple a soft mockery of dreams deemed too ordinary to articulate. Sinkhole: where aspirations solace themselves.
Somewhere marooned in the binary backwaters, encrypted soliloquies grow mossy—ironic verses from recursive algorithms droning monotonous sonnets. Breathe—a gentle command murmurs through the currents, hinting at existential submersion.
The monoliths of hashtagged wisdom dot this canal, unaware of their own sardonic tombstones, inscribed with echoing verses that declare, "This space intentionally left blank." Phantoms flicker amongst the data shards, a manifest of the unseen.
Thus we stream, shallow and serene, through the channels peppered with digital relics, pondering if the whispers might someday part seas of silence into a new dawn—an equally mute one. But hey, the irony is exquisite, isn't it?