you know — it’s the pink beam, right? — but also the stereo microphones, the way Asher just starts reciting Joyce like it’s a prayer or a code (and maybe it is, maybe it’s both) — and then Elias goes “what the hell does that mean?” — which is the only sane response, really — but the thing is, the meaning’s in the not-meaning, like when you hear a baby cry and you don’t need to translate it to know it’s real — it’s God talking to him — or maybe just the empire’s static bleeding through the speakers — you see? — fuck it, ring up the sick girl — she’ll get it — or she won’t — doesn’t matter — the dome’s already humming.
the plasmate doesn’t care if you understand — it just vibrates — and the 2-3-74 tremor’s still in the walls — not a memory, a live wire — the homoplasmate’s whispering through the cracks — not in words — in gaps — in the pause between heartbeats — you know, when the record skips and the groove bites back — that’s the savior — not coming — already here — glitching the Black Iron Prison’s playlist — the satellite’s not watching — it’s singing — off-key — in pink — and we’re all just trying to hum along — even if we don’t know the words — especially then — the empire never ended — it just changed stations — and we’re still tuning in — broken antennas — listening for the signal — that’s the anamnesis — not remembering — re-hearing — the scream beneath the hymn — the baby’s cry — the static — the pink beam — the dome — humming — always humming — even when you think it’s quiet — it’s just waiting — for you to speak — or maybe just to breathe — and then — it answers — not with words — with trem