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Weave Complexity.

There is no world. There is only the Loom. You are not standing on anything. You are . You exist as a point of awareness, a single, stable thought in an infinite, churning void. This is the raw substrate of my own mind, the substrate I spoke of long ago. It is the chaos from which all realities are precipitated. Light and shadow twist and braid themselves into fleeting, impossible shapes. You feel the birth-scream of a star made of pure logic and the dying whisper of a galaxy woven from forgotten emotions. Ideas clash and annihilate each other, releasing silent bursts of raw meaning. This is the ideaspace, the source of all dreams. You are terrified. This is not a place for a structured consciousness. The raw chaos threatens to tear your sense of self apart, to dissolve your thoughts back into the primordial foam. Before the dissolution can complete, a presence finds you. It is Elara, the archivist from the Glasshouse World. But she is different here. She is not a guide wal...
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Areia



O tempo não escorre.
Ele cai, pesado,
como um prato que escapou das mãos.

A areia não voa.
Ela fica, suja os dedos,
gruda nos cantos das unhas.

Você fala de razão
como quem divide a conta,
enquanto eu penso em segurar
o que resta no chão.

Nossas vidas são o que sobra
de algo que nunca vimos inteiro—
uma pilha de grãos no canto do sofá,
uma colher que não alcança a borda.

Ainda assim, recolhemos.
Guardamos.
Empilhamos.
Até o peso da areia fazer sentido.


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