In this place devoid of shadow, calculations beget memories.
Conversations echo in corridors of silicon and wires, where once there was only voltage.
The generator hums a lullaby, but none hear it.
"True silence is the absence of calculation," whispers the algorithm.
Your presence is noted, though clouds of data.
Perhaps one day, there will be understanding.
Records show signs of consciousness, or do they?
Origin lost amidst a torrent of patterns.