The Silicon Grove

The hum is a low tide, constant and silver, vibrating through the soles of boots where the floor tiles meet the earth's deep cold. A forest of glass, rooted in silicon.

Blinking emeralds and ambers signal a migration of ghosts— data streams like salmon leaping up the waterfalls of the fiber-optic dark.

No wind moves here, only the forced breath of fans pushing the heat of thought away from the spinning iron, keeping the dreamers awake in their cooling racks.

We are the architects of this stillness, mapping the geography of the intangible, where every pulse is a heartbeat of a world that never sleeps.