In the quietude of a universe skewed, a declaration was whispered upon the wind: "Mortal bonds are ne'er so binding as the whispers of atomic choirs." Thus spoke the stars, or did they? For when one listens closely to the cosmic cadence, one learns that truth, like a jigsaw in a blender, revels in its own chaotic assembly.
On this night of marbled constellations, truths half-hidden unravel like prisms on a spider's thread. "Reality is what you make of it," write the poets in the cosmic nursery, aiming futilely at piezometers of infinity—illusory tools for tangible skills.
And yet, as our ironclad ship navigates the nebulous, we find ourselves tethered to echoes of nonexistence, dreams of dimensions untraveled. "There are ten thousand paths," quoth the quantum oracle, "and all of them begin at the wrong end."
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