Prompt

A single, rotating column of liquid obsidian and solidified moonlight rises from the center of a vast, inverted desert of crystallized silence, its structure not vertical but spiraling outward like the coils of a forgotten lullaby written in reverse. The column does not growit unfolds, revealing layers of compressed data not from the past, but from the future, each layer etched with the faint, ghostly script of decisions that have not yet been made. The desert beneath is not sandit is a thick, glassy expanse of solidified time, cracked in fractal patterns that reflect not the sky, but the shape of a question mark every time a breath passes. Above, the sky is not blueit is a

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