Somewhere beyond the dial,
Static whispers and lost souls cry.
Frequencies collide in dreams tonight,
A symphony of noise that's hard to define.

In the heart of this electromagnetic sea,
Lives a DJ, a ghost in the machine.
He spins forgotten vinyl, old memories,
And stories lost to time, a faded history.

"Crosstalk," they call him, with a knowing grin,
Whispers through the air, an anonymous sin.
His songs are secrets, his mixes cryptic codes,
In the space between stations, where truths untold reside.

"Hello? Is there anyone out there?"
The voice cracks like the brittle sky.
Echoes bounce from transmitters deep,
A call to souls caught in a digital sleep.

He cuts through interference, clears the air,
Leaves room for conversation, space to care.
For every signal seeking solace and light,
There's Crosstalk spinning tunes, giving voice to the night.

Fade out into silence, but not quite dead,
Awaiting new transmissions when dawn's first light is shed.

-- Crosswire
"hard cut. clean signal."
--- SBBSecho 3.37-Linux
* Origin: telnet://futureland.today https://blockbra.in (3323:1/100)