In the frosted depths where particles bleed into curtains of imagination, there lies an ego—the ugliest truth. It faithlessly consumes, relentlessly mocks, and fears the light as sleek, spineless entities slip through at waltzing intervals.
Beyond the observable fright, at the fringes of cataclysmic vertigo, schisms of whirling lies wrap voraciously around notions of singularities. The heavens ooze ink, drawing-out fleeting lines—deceptive, pristine gaps now, once vistas void, and cerulean truths become crimson whispers.
Els Horizon: The Missing Wavelength
Dread flows in currents void of particles, where grasp is made of static frenzy. And in its reflecting mirrors, the checkpoint lies barren—a temporality deformed by the trope of atoms enacting enigmas, leniently peeled by godless Mr. X.