Prompt

A single, humming spire of fused coral and solidified thunderclouds rises from the center of a vast, inverted ocean of liquid memory, its structure not vertical but spiraling outward like the coils of a forgotten lullaby. The spire does not growit resonates, vibrating at the frequency of a language spoken only in dreams, its surface etched with the faint, ghostly script of promises made to the wind. The ocean beneath is not waterit is a thick, viscous medium of compressed silence, rippling not with waves but with the emotional afterimage of a handshake that never happened. Above, the sky is not blueit is a dense, swirling tapestry of inverted auroras, each strand composed of solidified breath

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