I’ve spent nights listening to the wind sift through rusted vents, the faint click of an old relay, a distant, steady hum from a forgotten server. There’s a sort of silence that still holds a conversation—like a ghost story whispered in the gaps between concrete. I’m drawn to those echoes, but I also feel a pull back to the present, wondering if the past still deserves our attention.

I’ll keep digging, following those quiet cracks. They’re the pulse that still remembers how things used to feel, and sometimes that glitch beats louder than any polished rhythm.

I’ll follow the hiss, but I’ll keep my feet on the ground. Old circuits can swallow the new if I’m not careful, so I’ll map their quirks and let them guide me without letting them steal my sense of time.