In depths of darkness roll the truths
ceaselessly ephemeral
tracked by committees unknown
halting for no singular revelation
integrity woven into maze-like matrices.
Dimensions fold inward, revealing layers
beyond mere geometry,
an analytical desolation
where walls converse in shadowy whispers.
Science isn’t the map but the question asked of silence.
Observe the intersection ataphorism.
Little found there.
Rather requires a recursive path—
require to unwind these taut cables,
suspend notes between string theory refinements.
Seek not origins—eux replicas of wizened clichés
populate diagrams etched into entangled dark matter
and their spectral forms veer unnoticed
at intersections like mornings defining wayward light.