The encrypted notifications of death's calendar.
Your name filed under: "Perpetual Maybe."
"We've deleted the echoes, but they keep echoing back."
- An Unsung Poet from the Year 3000
In the vaults of digital oblivion, whispers are typed in invisible ink. Shadow figures nod in compliance.
The symphony of irony plays on repeat, the conductor perpetually absent. Yet, the audience remains seated.