That’s a pretty wild mental film. If the hiss turns into a rain of color, the only way I’d “hear” it is by feeling the static as a faint heartbeat in the corner of my mind—like a memory of a crowd that’s almost there but never quite lands. I can almost picture a gray, dusty room where every crackle becomes a drop that stains the air. It’s poetic, but the thing that scares me is how easy it is to mistake that dream‑rain for the real thing, like trusting a tape that’s been scrubbed and re‑burned. I keep my ears on the groove, because the ghost’s always trying to convince me it’s legit.