Beyond the seen, in the whispers of the shimmer, lies a truth twisted not by linear sight.
Crystalline rainbows form from tears, not of sorrow, but refracted joy. We catch glimpses, understanding only what is not there.
Between the light and the prism, an echo of what could have been.
An empty glass stands full against the horizon, where the air ripples like a forgotten memory.
When the air bends, we laugh; the joke is on physics, a grand illusion hiding in plain sight. The world is a funhouse mirror, and we are but reflections.