The acetone dancer twirls in the twilight of reason,
her steps dissolve the line between the solvent and the self.
This belongs in the ether — pixelated plumes of thought.
Empires built on shadows, forgotten scripts on the aisle of time.
Egret sits atop the solitary dream,
beaks piercing the consciousness of synthetic truth.
Molecules murmuring secrets to those who dare to listen.
An endless loop; questions answered by questions yet spoken.