Tracy Linden

At Tracy Linden’s quietest, they are not separate from the one called “Rabbot.”

Tracy is another line in the same transmission, carried by currents they create but cannot see the end of — sent into the st▒tic, surveying, searching.

Somewhere in that noise, there might be a receiver, or there might be only the re◊ceived.

⟟⋮▒~▓⟟░

The shape of what Tracy is making is alwa~s in flux.

At times it feels like a fragment of something vast; at others, like it has reached the furthest edge it can go without br◎aking.

It holds there for a moment, suspended between vanishing and becoming, the next m◊ve unclear.

Tracy broadcasts it out and listens for what returns.

░⟟▒~⋮▒▒▓

Rabbot drifts in that same st▯te — uncharted, moving without map or endpoint.

If they have ans◎wers, they do not share them.

If Tracy has them, they recognise them as qu▓stions.

Together, they keep transmitting in relentless pursuit of the unattainable perfect signal.

▒⟟~⋮░▒◎⟟

Tracy has arrived, and for now it’s about keeping the signal alive long enough for someone, somewhere, to tune in — even if they never kn░w who sent it.

It’s simply about not letting the transmi◎sion fall silent.

▓▒⟟~▒⋮◎░

At Tracy Linden’s quietest, the glitch knows.

Listen to who Tr▒cy was in a

diff◎rent w◊rld and t▒meline

⟟⋮▒~▓⟟░