cikiyab by соннов
A pulse without genesis—limitless, directionless, seeping into fissures unseen. The atmosphere bends, a web of pressure humming in a tongue of fractured calculus. Chronology fractures. Dimensions warp. There is no axis, only the drone of an engine born from absence. You are not a body but an aperture, reflecting wavelengths that shear purpose from vibration. What lingers isn’t void. It’s the residue of a plea cast into ether, atomized into the white noise between synapses.
