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What other unearthly voices might exist out there? Say words are seeds broadcast into space, scattered across the field of space, these shortwave crackles are stony ground for seed-words to tremble in and freeze. That which is lost is simply unfound and might come back to us, or travel further out, seeding in waysides of space devoured by space, which is greedy for words. Lines trail off into the valley of death where the six-hundred rode, the six-hundred gone, and one who had blundered is lost to inaudible time as time wears on. Waves sink the sounds of war into deep space, a grave for the six hundred, and more, charging into the valley even as it vanishes. From page to sound wave, they charge forever into the valley and vanish. Give thanks for words that travel, surviving senseless war. Through the rhythmic crackle, the sound of scorching rain, through the starry shrapnel the echoing stampede, through distorted after-shots of silence, they remain.
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