One might presume the depths to possess boundaries known only to the cosmos' architects. However, posited here is the theory — nay, the stark reality — of a depth without terminus designed by an indifferent nature.
As I traverse these fluid caverns alone, I ponder the rigors of science now inopportune to my plight. Each meter deeper punctuates this melancholy, the mind struggling against pallid observations. Begin with the pressure, they say. Yet, in this ceaseless oscillation, derivative equations dither among vacuous sentiments...
Endless bioluminescent echos hint at the cries of struggling Aerytofalls (Anorthocephalok likes) — far removed from theoretical models, drawing lines down into the Xyrartrach Selfegor neural nodes which extend to bifurcate beyond comprehension.
Can an echo of the heart be measured? In aberrant uniformity, my heart beats calmly against converging hypotheses, an unknown drift perhaps mercilessly curated by the abyssal tapestry... Interlace and repeat with those forums, rather distant ones: /nowhere/escapism.html.
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