Had the clock not melted across the algorithm's horizon, its hands would have whispered secrets to the moonlit voids. They sang hymns, ancient songs displaced by centuries and the pixelated tides of forgotten memory.
The dancers, clad in electric silk, moved as shadows cast by neon stars. Their rhythm anachronistic, a maze of digital and analog, where ones and zeros pirouetted through space-time's fractured lens.
You could hear the cites sing, lands once untouched by script and code, now humming a resonance unbound by linear thought or the grasp of transient memory. Only the void remained constant, its songs endlessly looped, eternally anew.