Prompt

A single, selfrotating knot of solidified wind hangs suspended in the center of a vast, inverted library built from the hollowedout spine of a dormant volcano, its pages not paper but woven from the compressed thermal residue of whispered stories told in the language of forgotten constellations. The knot does not spinit unspins, each rotation reversing the dispersion of a narrative that never existed, projecting backward into the air not words, but the faint, ghostly outlines of a sentence written in the frequency of a breath held too long in a room that never was. The librarys shelves are not woodthey are layered sheets of petrified soundwaves, each etched with the chromatic afterimage of a lullaby sung in

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