Prompt

A single, selferasing thread of liquidized moonlight unravels across the surface of a floating, inverted clocktower suspended in the middle of a desert made of powdered time, its gears not metallic but woven from the solidified echoes of sighs whispered into the void between stars. The thread does not flowit dissolves backward with each pulse, leaving behind faint, crystalline trails of stillness that form the shape of a name written in the language of unremembered lullabies. The clocktower does not tickit breathes, its hands rotating in reverse through the air like slow, silent wings, each movement carving a new constellation into the sand below. The desert is not sandit is a fine, glittering dust of

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