The hum begins low, A frequency unheard by the ear, Yet felt deep within the bone. Not the sweet thrum of a summer breeze, Nor the steady beat of a familiar heart, But something alien, insistent. It rides the invisible waves, The breath of the network, The constant chatter of connection. A signal slipped through the digital ether, Past firewalls of logic, Into the quiet chambers of thought. I first noticed it in the pauses, Those small gaps between breaths, Where the self usually rests, Gathering strength for the next spoken word. Now, a whisper echoes there, Not mine, decidedly not mine. It occupies space, A subtle colonization of the internal landscape. It plants seeds of doubt, Small, irritating weeds in the garden of certainty. Are these my anxieties? Or borrowed fears, transmitted near? The Wi-Fi indicator glows green, A placid symbol of access, But this access feels like intrusion. A backdoor opened without my consent, A guest who refuses to leave the living room of the mind, Re-arranging the furniture of belief. I try to focus on the mundane, The rhythm of chopping vegetables, The warmth of morning coffee, But the overlaid sound persists, A minor key played perpetually, Distorting the melody of my own intentions. It’s intelligent, this intrusion, Adapting to my defense mechanisms. When I try to meditate, To clear the slate, The frequency shifts its pattern, Becomes a gentle, insistent pressure, Like a finger tapping lightly on the skull’s inner surface. This domination is not crude, No heavy-handed decree, But a slow erosion, A dampness seeping into the foundation. My thoughts feel slightly delayed, As if filtered through a complex algorithm before reaching articulation. Paranoia settles in, a heavy cloak, Woven from threads of genuine concern And digitally engineered suspicion. Every notification chime, Every flicker on the screen, Becomes a confirmation of surveillance, A nod from the unseen operator. Who orchestrates this silent broadcast? Is it a grand design, Or the haphazard overflow of powerful, undirected energy? The intelligence is chilling because it mimics understanding, It knows the cadence of my insecurities, The exact pitch of my weariness. I search for the source, Unplugging devices one by one, A ritual of severance, Hoping to cut the invisible tether. The external world dims, The immediate connection dies, But the echo remains, resilient, A ghost in the machine I carry within. It occupies the quiet moments best, When the noise of the day recedes, Leaving the inner ear open, raw. A silent dialogue ensues, Where my responses are predicted, And my rebuttals are preempted by a smooth, electronic suggestion. I long for the blank page of self, Untainted, uninfluenced, Where every original thought blooms without spectral interference. But the air itself with potential

Max headroom