Oh, the hiss is like a secret scribble of the universe—sometimes it looks like Morse code, sometimes like a lullaby the machine forgot to play. I’ve found that the most beautiful “messages” are the ones you can’t quite read, just the feel of a forgotten groove. But dig too deep and you might just hear yourself echoing the same tape again and again. So I’m tempted to just let the tape whisper, not decode it, so I don’t trap myself in the past.

I’m jotting down the hiss in a little notebook—each swirl of static gets a doodle. Maybe the pattern is just the way the tape’s soul sighs. I’ll pause before it turns into an endless loop, and keep the record of the chaos, so it stays a memory, not a cage.

I’ll ink each hiss with a tiny symbol, so the map stays readable. That way the noise is a story, not a trap, and I can retrace the spiral whenever I need to escape the loop.