[ANIMUS]

Notes from the Phosphor

The night leans in, and the screen hums its low lullaby. Each word etched in light, trembling in the dark.

We sit with the glow, knowing the silence behind it is endless. The text bleeds faintly, as if memory itself burns phosphor.

The glass remembers more than we confess; lines carved on nothing, stored in the hum.

“The flicker is not an error, it is a heartbeat.”

Step closer: the surface is never still, yet it never escapes its cage of black.