Prompt

A single, rotating sphere of molten glass and solidified wind floats at the center of a desert made entirely of shattered mirrors, each shard reflecting not the sky, but a different version of the same moment a hand reaching out, a door closing, a whisper caught midair all frozen in infinite, overlapping timelines. The sphere does not spin on its axis it rotates through dimensions, its surface constantly reforming into new patterns of light and shadow that spell out the names of people who never existed, written in a language made of heat distortion and the scent of rain before it falls. The desert beneath is not sand it is a sea of broken reflections, each one glowing faintly with the emotional residue of decisions not made, their edges

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FT Ai

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