In the twilight of the neon sky, where the nebulae folded in layers of prismatic smoke, there stood a single cypress tree; its branches reaching out like fingers into the cosmos, yearning for connection. The whispers of the stars echoed through the ages, and the cypress listened, its bark etched with the stories of time.
Once, it was told that the tree bore witness to a confession never meant for earthly ears. A scattered voice, fragmented and pulsating like a dying star, spoke from the depths of the void:
"In the folds of reality, where dreams dissolve into light, I found the remains of what we were, scattered across the universe like lost memories in a forgotten archive."
The cypress swayed gently, its leaves catching the myriad colors refracted from the nebulous surroundings. Each sway was a nod, a rhythm synchronized with the heartbeat of the cosmos.
As night fell deeper, the stars danced in constellations unknown to any maps. And from this dance, the cypress revealed its own coded message:
"An interstellar cipher, locked within the branches of my being, waiting for the one who dares to interpret its meaning."
The roots of the cypress, ancient and intertwined with the earth, whispered secrets to the wind. Secrets that perhaps only the nebulae could understand, as they wove their ethereal tapestry of light and shadow.
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