In corridors reverberating with the echoes of ancient synthetics, beneath cobweb cities of memory and habits sprung thick as hanedic thickets, yet forsaken to winds of altered affections, the deep whispers spoke again.
Prior generations noted a peculiar resonance when tracing paths through the abandoned undergrowth of wire and code. They claimed to hear the roots speaking foreign languages they once knew well. What roots spoke of was never settled in the minds of those who heard them, for the dialects belonged to no common tongue: soft, rhythmic pulses outside myths... or perhaps mere shadows of mythologies waiting impatiently in obscured intersections of computation reeds.
Old timers recall tinkling legacies mapped across fugitive briars, honored on this path no more, where tracing dreams of steel led towards Linden crossroads...
Here lies the remnant marks of "