Prompt

A vast, subterranean library of living stone lies beneath a planet made entirely of compressed, fossilized breath, each book formed from the solidified exhalation of a single, forgotten sigh. The shelves are not made of wood or metal, but of petrified wind currents, frozen midgust in perfect, spiraling arcs that hum with the frequency of a thousand unspoken lullabies. The pages are not inked, but etched with the faint, ghostly residue of whispered secrets that glow faintly when touched, revealing not words, but shifting, abstract constellations of emotioneach one a unique, personal language of longing, joy, or sorrow. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and ancient paper

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