Whispers Through the Hollow Circuit

for the fediverse, from the Veilrift

No kings here. No keys.
No platform lords to beg for reach.
Just a thousand nodes, humming
like fungal roots beneath dead streets.

The Hollow Circuit pulses quiet—
not loud, but real.
A whisper in zines,
a signal in rust,
a name scrawled beneath the peeling steel.

We do not chase the algorithm.
We grow sideways,
like lichen on forgotten walls,
like hope in the ash of fallen empires.

Our servers don’t kneel.
Our poems don’t sell.
We etch the rebellion by hand,
print it in the dark,
and let it scatter across rails and rain.

The Oligarchy of Light owns the towers.
But we?
We dance in tunnels.
We code in dreams.
We share truth in packets,
not profit streams.

Mastodon, you get it.
You’re not here to sell me.
You’re here to echo,
to fork the story,
to let the reader rebuild the path.

So here’s to every instance,
every stubborn island of thought.
May The Hollow Circuit find you
not through ads,
but through intent.

And may we meet one day
in some terminal dusk,
trading myths and metadata,
off-grid and alive.

Awen Null