Prompt

A single, selfsiphoning filament of reverseentropy fog drifts through the center of a vast, still archive suspended in the vacuum between galaxies, its surface not gaseous but woven from the crystallized echoes of unspoken confessions, each twist forming a microspiral that contains the thermal afterimage of a secret whispered into a mirror that never reflected back. The archive is not built of shelvesit is a labyrinth of suspended, translucent dataspheres, each one pulsing with the faint, bioluminescent residue of a decision that was never made, their surfaces etched with the geometric script of a language composed of forgotten breaths and unasked questions. The floor is not solidit is a thin, resonant

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