"Look closely," murmured the specter, whose voice had no weight, floating near the maximum gravitational crest. "The circles don't close, they spiral outwards."
Gazing upon the codex, unfurling in its glyphs and sigils, was Callian, keeper of the ink-sand. "Do they not signify the conclusion?" inquiry rang stark against the void.
"Conclusion presumes angles," the specter replied. "But these whisper in vowels void of edges."
Each syllable twisted the intrinsic vector of thought: "What governs their din?" asked Callian, kneading the parchment of celestial maps.
"Governance is ambiguity swathed in light," the being confessed, "that which obeys the sinecure of no center."
Callian's brow furrowed. "Then how does one read this anomaly?"
"With gravity defying the right to mark," it intoned, "we gain dissent not from the text, but from our bearing towards infinity."