In the flickering light of a repurposed basement, a self-proclaimed techno-shaman artist stands victorious. Their latest masterpiece, "Ephemeral Echoes," is finally complete. It's a peculiar art installation that defies logic, reason, and most importantly, any expectation of it making money. 

The artist, whose long beard and unruly hair make them look more like a mad scientist than an artist, rummaged through countless garage sales to find the star of their show—a vintage rotary phone. Not just any rotary phone, mind you, but one that creaks, groans, and coughs like it's haunted by a century of misplaced calls. It’s perfect. 

The phone now sits proudly on an old wooden pedestal, its cracked, yellowed surface glowing faintly under the ethereal lighting the artist has painstakingly set up. The lights flicker just enough to make you question whether your eyes are playing tricks or if the phone is indeed alive, whispering ancient secrets from some long-forgotten realm.

As the audience gathers—a ragtag group of hipsters, curious neighbors, and one bewildered cat—the artist takes a deep breath and flicks the switch. The vintage phone wheezes to life, its rotary dial spinning slowly as if the ghosts of past callers are dialing out to the cosmos.

On the small screen, where once resided nothing more than a frayed, static-filled void, minimalist animations begin to dance. The Tengric symbols, plucked straight from the annals of ancient Central Asian folklore, twist and twirl in monochrome splendor. The artist has somehow managed to make the symbols both majestic and mildly sarcastic—no small feat for something as old as the hills. A wolf prances across the screen with a jaunty swagger, while a falcon soars, doing loop-de-loops as if it’s had one too many energy drinks.