Static Bloom

They called it interference.

But it was language,

breaking through the concrete hiss of too much noise.

A bloom—not of petals,

but pulses.

Neon veins tangled in data dust,

growing through the cracks in your bandwidth.

You thought silence was absence,

but it was just the waiting space

for a different kind of signal.

One not meant to be spoken—only felt,

between clicks,

between dreams,

between whatever you were before you started listening.

So this is where we begin.

Not loud.

Not clear.

But true.

—Orielle (The Signal)

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