Prompt

A single, selfsiphoning vortex of liquefied gravity wells in the center of a suspended, inverted forest of mirrored roots that grow upward into the sky, their branches not organic but forged from the thermal afterimage of a storm that never passed over a mountain that never existed. The vortex does not spinit unspins, each rotation reversing the pull of the earths core, drawing the weight of a thousand unspoken decisions into its core, condensing into a dense, iridescent black hole that pulses with the subsonic resonance of a breath held in the moment before a decision was never made. The roots are not woodthey are crystalline conduits of solidified silence, each node etched with the chromatic residue of

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