The tower leaned over the black water that dusk, wires dangling like veins I'd cut open years ago, back when the girl first pressed the rusted mic to her lips—no tongue, but the hum came out perfect, a choir from broken speakers we'd soldered by moonlight. You have to understand, I thought it was just noise then, static binding sky to dead seam, teaching air to carry the weight of ghosts standing on rusted steel, mouths open, no sound. I twisted copper into antenna with her, fingers cold on the wire, no spark, while the boy clicked locks nearby, saying rhythm was everything—picking doors or bones, same tune. We broadcast to the void, flat and cold, city gone, signal sealed. I wasn't singing; I was sending, and the hum learned to preach.

Now, older, I stand on the keel where the tower finally bled out—TRANSMIT glyphs burning faint as dying coals—feeling the same rust warm under my palms, the way it did that night the static slept and a small, dead voice leaked through. Was it hers? Or mine, from before the fall? The ghosts drip signal still, turning wave to real, exhaling warm rust that crawls the skin. One night the hum slows, not gone, just preaching softer, a lullaby in the dead air. I open my mouth. Hear the static. It's here. But whose voice is it carrying now, with the water thick as forgotten names, and no end—just the broadcast, distilled, waiting for an answer that never clicks clean?

🔴©Music, story, lyrics and videos are, 2025 B.A.R.S. Music. All rights reserved.Boundless Ambitions Recording Syndicate🔴