Procifia Station

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.

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