Prompt

A single, selfrotating knot of woven silence, shaped like a Mbius strip of solidified breath, floats at the center of a vast, inverted clocktower suspended in the void between two nonrotating moons. The knot does not twistit unthinks, each rotation reversing the entropy of cognition, reforming into ephemeral, geometric afterimages shaped like the negative space between two neurons that never fired in the same thought. The clocktower is not stoneit is a layered expanse of petrified timekeeping from a civilization that measured hours by the frequency of unspoken apologies, each gear etched with the thermal residue of a second that was almost acknowledged, its surfaces humming with the faint, subsonic afterimage

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