Prompt

A single, translucent teacup made of solidified breath and woven twilight sits balanced on the edge of a floating, obsidian platform suspended in a vast, still sky of inverted auroras. The cup is not emptyit holds a single, swirling vortex of liquid shadow that pulses with the rhythm of a forgotten heartbeat, each ripple forming the shape of a word written in the language of unspoken questions. The handle is not metal, but a coiled tendril of solidified silence, humming faintly with the frequency of a lullaby never sung. Around it, the sky is not dark, but a deep, iridescent violet, streaked with slowmoving constellations that rearrange themselves into geometric patterns of regret, hope,

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