Prompt

A single, floating island of compressed silence and solidified breath hovers in the middle of a vast, inverted sky of liquid shadow, its surface not flat but undulating like a frozen sigh, each ripple etched with the faint, ghostly script of a promise whispered into the wind. The island is not made of earthit is a dense, amorphous mass of solidified potential, shaped by the collective weight of decisions never made, its edges glowing faintly with the emotional residue of a handshake that never happened. Above, the sky is not blueit is a deep, iridescent black, rippling with the afterimage of a sunrise that never occurred, its surface cracked in organic patterns that reflect not the ground, but the shape

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