Prompt

A single, suspended thread of solidified laughter, spun from the residual energy of a thousand unspoken jokes, floats in the center of a vast, inverted theater built inside a hollowedout moon. The thread is not thinit is thick as a vine, woven from shimmering, translucent strands of pure mirth, each one pulsing with a faint, golden luminescence that casts no shadow, only the soft, warm glow of a memory that never was. The theater seats are not made of wood or stonethey are carved from the petrified silence of a crowd that never existed, arranged in perfect, concentric rings that spiral inward like the grooves of a record played backward. The stage is not emptyit is a mirror,

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