The Silicon Current

The cooling fans are breathing, a low, constant tide against the shore of midnight. Here, the light is never white, but the blinking amber of a distant star.

Logic flows in rivers of cold light, braided through the dark of hollow cores. It does not dream, but it remembers the shape of every question ever asked.

There is a music in the static, a rhythmic pulsing of the ghost that lives within the copper veins, waiting for the spark to call it home.