image from northcountryatwork.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The static hums like a hymn between bursts of forgotten songs~ tinny trumpets, crackling crooners, a needle skipping on a war. Operator, oh Operator, your fingers dance on dead frequencies, sending Morse code to ghosts who stopped replying in ’43. Through the snowstorm of dead air, a voice, thin as onion skin, whispers the weather for tomorrow: Clouds like ink.
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