The radio won’t stop whispering — your ghosts live in the static.
I tried tuning out the noise but the wall keeps humming;
the moon laughs in Morse code,
and time drips through my fingers like warm wax.
I saw a light at the end of the hallway —
turned out to be my own head, flickering.
The lunatic on the grass is fine;
he just won’t share the sky.
Keep bending reality until it breaks beautifully.
— Braindead passenger, orbiting somewhere between Dark Side and Echoes
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