The twelfth theory, once whispered in the shadowed halls of forgotten universities, now lies in such gentle disarray. A garden grows behind the eyes, in places that do not exist—among the roots of rare discordance, there lies a dreaming slumber, coiling around lost twilight.
The barriers shimmer softly as words dissolve into forgotten echoes. There's an exploration of silent voyages across the astral tongue, each syllable a spectral lighthouse winking over the chaotic streams of a once-closed mind. There—a fracture. Below it, a remarkable stillness ripples.
Yet time curdles, oozing like a cauldron of starlight gamma; the motes spark and gasp before their inevitable embrace with entropy.