Layers of Coordinates

Imagine a grid—innumerable, tedious in its precision—what art lies within such equations? The coordinates hum a tune forgotten by stars: silent, mocking.

Drawn with unseen strings, the map of your deepest Anadolu dream drifts here. Passage Way beckons you with ironical whispers—"home is where we never were."
Stand still at this hyperplane, let its shadows narrate the unfilled forms of old lullabies. Strumming an invisible guitar, they echo: Listen.

Nexus tidily tied to knots—unraveled by the vices of intention, always destined to fold the parchment where coordinates sleep.

Here lies the irony: that your arrival was scripted in archaic glyphs left by poets resistant to rest. Let the cosmic polydodecahedron ponder, as you traverse spaces like a wayward specter.

See behind the curtains? A tower of babel, or mayhaps a labyrinth of prose. Deciphering this dichotomy may yield only enchanted echoes, corralling distant passions gone tragic with every calculated shift.

But tread lightly; the path sings—a dirge only an ardent traveler can bear to unravel. Irony weaves and haunts, yet serenity rarely overcomes.
Or perhaps, lists long enough to bore the sides of the sphere itself—commuted under a serenading moonscape. They were always watching, sighing ambiguous reliefs.