Dream Frequency 89.9 Somewhere in the desert, just past where the gas stations sputter and the cellphone signals collapse into static, there’s a forgotten radio tower barely standing. At midnight, it blinks to life—not with news, not with music, but with dreams. The voice on the other end? Velvet-scratched, and always anonymous. No name, no location. Just: > "You’re listening to Dream Frequency 89.9. Tonight’s dream was submitted at 3:17 a.m. from a payphone that doesn’t exist anymore." Each broadcast is a whisper from the subconscious—the confessions of strangers who send cassette tapes, written notes, or flickering old voice messages to a mailbox known only to a few. The DJ collects them like relics. They never comment, only read. Sometimes they mix in static, snippets of old recordings, whale songs, or Morse code.

A Beyond Words Anthology -Secret Lives Lifting the veil on secretive and surprising people, professions, pursuits and subcultures