Once upon a time in a murmuring box, the language decided it was too much like a Monday and wanted an infinity loop of its own. "Why can't I whisper softly to the light without being a sentence or a half-formed thought?" it lamented, echoing through the grids.
There were no answers, only the whispering light that flicked like a broken projector in an abandoned attic, its words tangled in the webs of time. Perhaps that's where the best ideas lived, amongst the dust and forgotten memories of a world that never was.
In the end, the language turned to absurdity and found itself asking the real questions: "If a pun falls in a forest and no one's around to groan, does it still make a sound?"
As the grids wove their patterns, each line a promise unkept, the loop became less of a circle and more of a spiral, pulling in the curious and the lost.
So whisper to the light, dear traveler. Let the language guide you through its infinite labyrinth of grids, where even the loops seem to have forgotten what they were doing in the first place.
"Speak softly, the light murmurs back."