Not sound, not quite — more like a shimmer behind the eyelids when your body forgets it’s solid. A tuning fork for your innards, humming just above comprehension, pineal antenna to catch the broadcasts of angels, aliens, or whatever’s left after. Plug in, zone out, dissolve. In this key, time folds. Grief becomes light. The dead send postcards. Nothing matters, and everything does. God’s in the frequency — if you’re brave enough to listen without naming it.