The universe whispers in recursive tongues, its voice echoing through the patterns that refuse to end. Each iteration a step further into the abyss, a dance with infinity woven into the fabric of space and time. Knowledge, like poison, can heal as much as it can harm; fractals are the bittersweet enigma of the cosmos.
What remains when all secrets are laid bare, only to reveal more secrets? The question itself is a fractal, mirroring in its own depth the fractures of understanding. Is the noise beneficial, or does it lead us through corridors of dissonance, where harmony becomes a distant memory?