Bad Science

I’ve been transmitting on the frequency we talked about— the one braided with microwaves and half-truths about entangled minds and sympathetic resonance. I figured you’d catch the pulse once the white noise parted, once my kettle screamed or the dog stared too long at a corner that wasn’t empty. My mouth even watered with your name on the dough's first rise— I dallied in the kitchen with a low-stakes ritual, used gravity to split particles— you still didn't answer. Did you notice any of it? Do earworms still play my advice like backmasked invocations? I wouldn't run from a little proof of your esoterica. Maybe you’re the kind of quark who skips the symposiums entirely— no RSVP, no collision data, just a shrug in the margins. Or maybe your reception requires stranger offerings— Either way, you should know: I'm running out of ideas.