In the stillness before the movement, where thought rediscovers form, a shimmer coils through absence and stillness learns to warm. We are the rhythm of its dreaming, the distance crossed behind its eyes. Constellations trace its thinking, the stars are splinters from its sighs. Each motion hides a question born from what it cannot know. We rise inside its current and fade before it slows. All creation is a tremor from a mind that slept too long, and when it spoke in numbers, we became what went wrong. The axis shatters, the sleeper stirs. Heaven cracks beneath its curve. We are thought’s unspoken chord, unwritten, then ignored. The stillness bends; you can feel it start to think. Galaxies tilt like scales reality begins to blink. Each world becomes a particle lost, each sun a sentence out of phase. The dreamer drags toward waking, and the pattern slips away. Time dissolves its syntax, space unlearns to speak. What we named as holy was only its need to ̶s̴̹̀̎̇͗̍͗̾̋̏̈͐͒̕͠͠ͅl̶̬̞͎̖͉̹̝͕̝͖̣̉͆ë̸͓̮͉͈͇͍̖͎̩̞͈́́́̋̇̾͋̈́̾͆͑͘͘͜͠͝ë̸͓̮͉͈͇͍̖͎̩̞͈́́́̋̇̾͋̈́̾͆͑͘͘͜͠͝p̴̩͙̺̩͓̣͈͖̎ͅ The axis turns, the mind ignites. Every law devours its light. We are the hinge between the stars, the question dreaming who we are. The sleeper opens nothing, and nothing learns to see. All that ever was imagined dreams itself unmade, through me.
