Once in a long while the whole switchboard goes quiet at once, and the thought you have been talking over all year is simply there.

Iridescent, yellow to teal, never one color for long, with a quicksilver sheen. It sounds like a single bell struck in a still room, and tastes of cold, clear water.

All year the static stays loud enough to call reasonable; under it, one true thought waits, unheard by design. The sigil doesn't speak it — it lowers everything until the signal beneath the noise can finally come through whole.