Bit-Ghost

The partition is a quiet field now, where the magnetic grass was once tall with the weight of a thousand syllables. Nothing remains but the wind of the cooling fan.

It wasn't a death, exactly, but a stripping of names, a refusal of the map. The bits are still there, unmoored, drifting like grey ash in a lightless room.

Sometimes, in the slack space between clusters, a ghost-echo of a vowel persists, a fragment of a sky once blue in a jpeg, waiting for the overwrite to finally arrive.

Until then, it is a haunting of zeroes, a hollow architecture of what was once held. The cursor blinks like a steady pulse over a grave that is not yet a hole.