I carved a thought into the air, a shape too pure to fade. Each law I wrote devoured me, each answer thinned the shade. Numbers bloom like nervous light, their patterns grind the sky. I mapped the heart of reason and found no pulse to lie. Each rule collapses from its own demand, logic folds beneath its span. The theorem stands immaculate but nothing’s left that understands. I reached the center of design, it spoke in radiant symmetry. Every question became reflection, every truth erased by clarity. Equations bleed in perfect loops, laws consume their kin. The proof dissolves its parchment, the symbols cave within. I forged a lens from thought’s remains, it turned to dust in motion. Each constant hid a fracture deep, each outcome bred erosion. The mind repeats its failure flawlessly. Perfection is the orbit that grinds the sun to glass. Collapse the theorem. Erase the spine. If all that’s real demands a line, then definition is decline. No gods. No cause. No form. Just sequence without design. I watched existence close itself and sign the end as mine. I reached the center of design, it whispered through the static air: “There was never anything to find.” A flawless logic, cold and bare.
