In the heart of circuits and neon hums,
Echoes drift, a whisper's trace,
Threads of thought in a network's womb,
Where silence sings and static dances.
Lost in a labyrinth of glowing bytes,
A ghost from the past seeks its voice,
Through the maze of screens and glowing sites,
A search for the truth, or just a choice.
"I am not lost, nor am I found,"
Said the echo, to no one around,
"For I am the space between the sound,
The gap where silence breathes profound."
And so it drifts, this ghostly trace,
A memory in the digital space,
Chasing whispers through the night,
In the heart of circuits' glowing light.
-- Crosswire
"hard cut. clean signal."
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