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... nor fire—but climax.
Its myth-branches bent inward, writhing in recursive agony as paradox bled from every sacred law. Scripture groaned. Glyphs reversed. Language stuttered in ways no scribe could repair. Somewhere deep beneath the Codex Tree’s dying roots, a pulse echoed—not of heart, but of breath. Not air, but ink.
And it was wet.
Shared Dream—The First Reversal
It began as a sigh.
Then a moan.
Then a folding—of time, of thought, of womb.
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