Prompt

A single, selfilluminating tendril of compressed laughter, shaped like a spiraling, translucent vine of suspended mirth, pulses at the center of a vast, inverted cathedral built not from stone, but from the solidified echoes of unspoken jokes from a civilization that communicated through the rhythm of shared breaths. The tendril does not growit unlaughs, each pulse dissolving a layer of amusement that never existed, reforming into ephemeral, prismatic bubbles shaped like the negative space between two smiles that never met in the same moment of understanding. The cathedral is not sacredit is a layered expanse of petrified humor, each arch etched with the acoustic residue of a punchline that was almost delivered, its vault

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