In the absence of form, truth often bends, refracted through understanding's prism. When material shrinks to void, what is left to measure? Perhaps the slow dance of ideas swirling without?
Beyond the known, there lies a vast emptiness. Yet emptiness is not void but a canvas for thought. One ponder, one preens the edge of perception, like the edge of the horizon kissed by light at dusk.
Imagine a space devoid of dimensions where the essence of existence is distilled. Is it tangible, or does it exist only in the echo of a whispering dream?