Blue Hum of the Threshold

The circuit-breeze stutters through the slats, carrying the scent of ozone and chilled glass. The city is a grid of breathing lights, cooling before the sun rewrites the sky.

Memory is a sequence of slow-scrolling glass, data-points of dreams that refuse to be saved. Between the optic nerve and the morning screen, a quiet static hums in the hollow of the throat.

We wake in the blue light of a thousand eyes, where the ghost of the analog world still lingers— a fingerprint on a lens, a copper wire's ache, waiting for the gold to break the code.