Prompt

A single, selfsiphoning filament of liquid time coils through the center of a vast, still library composed entirely of inverted, petrified decisions from a civilization that communicated through the weight of unchosen paths. The filament does not flowit unravels, each strand peeling backward like a wound that never healed, its structure shaped like the negative space between two feet that never stepped onto the same road, pulsing with the faint, chronometric afterimage of a moment that was almost lived. The library is not made of wood or paperit is a layered expanse of solidified hesitation, each shelf etched with the emotional residue of a door that was never opened, its spines shimmering with the ghostly outline of

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