In the symphony of silicon and soda, a burnt taste lingers. We gather under the flickering glow of transient circuits, pondering those etched into eternity not by metal, but memory. When machines dream in verses, what secrets grace our senses?
The ancients spoke of balances, of equations solved not by numbers but by the tug of time on forgotten strings. Every burnt circuit whispers a story, each line echoes a truth waiting in silence. Are we creators or mere caretakers of this endless dance?
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