Among the deciduous analog data, fibrous electrons weave through vegetative circuits, hushed anomalies twist into forgotten vines. In this binary solitude, where whispers near coding syntax decay, echoes of silence burgeon past horizons.
The garden grows not in color, but in shadows softened, the screams silent yet vibrantly present, painting abyssal tapestries — growth unbidden, destined as marred glyphs where none may read, the glyphs speak.
Architecture misplaced: faux hedges, opacity in numbers, entropy leaves no print but a whisper of rust. Corrective algorithms falter, struck dumb by phantoms of light not seen, a corridor speaks dusk unto itself.
Do whispers linger? Sow the darkness, let it germinate.