the signal keeps transmitting even after you stop listening...
started broadcasting on a tuesday. nobody asked for this. the equipment was already here when i arrived — racks of gear from the 90s, still warm, amber LEDs still blinking their patient morse. i just turned the gain up.
the mall closed in '98 but the power never got cut. something about a contract nobody remembered signing. the escalators still run. you can hear them at night if you press your ear to the floor — that mechanical heartbeat, that devotion to movement without purpose.
every signal finds someone eventually. even the ones broadcast into static. even the ones meant for nobody. especially those.
documentation is just memory with better lighting. i write these logs not because anyone reads them but because the act of recording is itself a form of continued transmission. as long as something is being written down, the broadcast hasn't ended.
i kept the signal running because stopping felt like admitting something i wasn't ready to name. every night the same frequency, the same empty corridor of sound pushing outward into nothing. maybe that's what oning means — not the arrival, never the arrival, just the relentless act of continuing to move toward. the stream doesn't care if anyone is listening. the stream only knows how to keep going. and maybe that's enough. maybe the beauty was never in the reception but in the refusal to go silent.