But you’re completely alone, everything around you has been abandoned or is frozen, and searching for a signal is your only warmth. You crank the radio to life and continue your hunt for existence. Beyond now, you’ve reached a point where pupil dilation is at an all-natural high and colors sound you in darkness. The light has been out for months, both natural and electric, and the only community you have is distant voices staggering in and out of melody, and maybe that’s current, or a recording. Maybe that’s nature inflicting our radio waves: a hot mic left ON-AIR, broadcasting the wind bludgeoning the side of a radio hut. Staring into the void at your front and all around you, this basement swells with emptiness and echos. Out of the sound pours a mess of memory and drowns all your hope. No more tension. It’s cold, but not to your bones. Voices of ghosts surround your mentality, yet nothing but searing thought harkens hopeless humanity henceforth. Frustration turns off the sound. Evil compounds itself into piercing silence. Curiosity cranks the radio back to being. “Don’t be like that to me. Come back into this here. Where do we all?” Your lips crack blood from the cold, “Post Radio. Post Radio I am here. Consume me in comfort, and we’ll rot together.” So little emotion through such beautifully decayed facets.
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