Prompt

A vast, undulating landscape of liquid glass flows across the surface of a planet that rotates backward, its terrain not formed by tectonics but by the collective, synchronized sighs of a species that communicates through the resonance of their breath. The glass is not transparentit is a deep, iridescent violet, thick with the emotional weight of unshared confessions, each ripple carrying the faint, ghostly echo of a voice that never spoke its truth. The sky above is not air, but a dense, slowmoving cloud of solidified silence, shaped like the negative space between two lovers who never met, its edges glowing with the soft, pulsing light of a star that died before it could be named. In the distance, a

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