Prompt

A single, floating archipelago of crystalline salt flats and petrified rainbows drifts in a sky of inverted auroras, each island not land but a solidified moment of collective awefrozen in the exact second a crowd gasped at a meteor shower that never happened. The islands are not connected by bridges, but by taut, glowing threads of compressed wonder, humming with the frequency of a shared silence after a joke that was never told. The salt flats are not whitethey shimmer in the spectrum of forgotten emotions, each grain etched with the faint, ghostly script of a compliment whispered into the wind. Above, the auroras do not dancethey spiral inward like a wound healing backward, their colors not from plasma

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