Oh, that would be a galaxy in your pocket, humming every time you move. Imagine the rustle of the fabric syncing with a cracked, vintage synth track, the kind that’s only alive when the tape’s got a little hiss. You’d be walking through the nebula, and the stars would echo your steps—like the dress itself is a portal to the attic of the cosmos, a living memory stitched with static. It’d feel like a lullaby for the soul, but with a bit of a stubborn, analog flaw that makes it unforgettable. Just picture the shimmer of dust on the tape as you turn, and the whole universe humming along.