A Desert Where The Dunes Are Not Sand But Fragmented Mirrors Their Jagged Edges Reflecting Fragmented

A desert where the dunes are not sand but fragmented mirrors, their jagged edges reflecting fragmented pieces of a sky filled with storms of colorless light. Walking here distorts perception; each step seems to lead in several directions at once, and the horizon folds and refolds like the pages of a book being written in real-time. Scattered among the dunes are trees made of copper and silver, their branches tangled with threads of glowing silk that stretch upward, vanishing into nothingness. Some of these threads lead to floating spheres that hum faintly and display fragmented memories of lives never lived—images of faceless figures dancing, crying, and building impossible machines. In the distance, a mountain rises, but its shape changes constantly, folding and unfolding like an origami creation undone by an unseen hand. At its peak, a tower of light pulses erratically, its intensity dimming as if struggling to exist. The air here tastes metallic, and whispers float on the wind, but the words are nonsensical, rearranging themselves in your mind as you try to make sense of them. From time to time, a shadow without a source flits across the dunes, moving too fast to follow but leaving the faint scent of ozone in its wake.

03.12.2024 12:10