Snakes, phonograph lines traced outward through the night, dividing darkness from darkness, above from below. She watched them for minutes, really, and her eyes stung.

Procifia Station has been omnipresent for a long time.

Once, when she was younger, she’d sit on the edge until the wind numbed her ankles completely, playing with the arials, dipping a finger into the currents and seeing the colors swirl, little fractals, fragments of a hologram rose against the night. Now she just watched, and the unaltered lines drew along their straight paths without intervention, like an electrostatic microphone hiss, a stark, lonely perfection.