The vastness stretches, not outward, but inward, folding upon itself

The vastness stretches, not outward, but inward, folding upon itself, collapsing, expanding, a chasm that is not a chasm, an absence that is not empty. The edges fray, unravel, threads of something woven too tightly now snapping one by one, vibrating with a frequency too deep to hear but felt, thrumming beneath skin, beneath thought, beneath the illusion of shape. Surfaces undulate, shifting in a slow, deliberate motion, yet still, yet restless, pulling and releasing, inhaling and exhaling with no breath, no lungs, no source. The weight of something unseen presses down, curling, twisting, an invisible force pulling from all sides, stretching the distance between moments, between colors, between meaning. Light drips, pooling in places it should not, reflecting nothing, casting no shadows, a liquid luminance that pulses without rhythm, thick, clotted, seeping into the spaces between existence. Shapes emerge, not defined, not whole, mere impressions, remnants of something half-formed, undone, redrawn, shifting without movement, appearing without arriving. The vastness above does not loom—it watches. It does not curve, does not open, but something behind it does, peeling apart in layers of quiet unraveling, pressing inward, closer, so close, closer still. The distance shrinks, stretches, contracts, collapses in a moment that does not pass, held, frozen, repeating, repeating, repeating. Something is wrong with the depth. The near and the far merge, indistinct, colliding in a flatness that is too vast, too endless, too pressing. There is no direction, no dimension, only the sensation of being pulled, drawn toward nothing, toward nowhere, toward the thing that does not wait but has always been. No release, no release, no release.

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