Prompt

A single, selfilluminating spore of compressed, nonNewtonian silence drifts through the center of a vast, still library composed entirely of solidified, unopened letters from a civilization that communicated through the texture of unmailed confessions. The spore does not floatit unreads, each rotation peeling away a layer of text that never existed, revealing a hollow core shaped like the negative space between two hands that never held a pen in the same moment. The library is not wood or paperit is a layered expanse of petrified ink from a million unspoken apologies, each shelf etched with the emotional residue of a sentence that was almost written, its edges glowing with the faint, thermodynamic afterimage

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