2025 April #001. The sphere doesn't ask permission to enter our reality. It simply appears, fracturing the architecture of certainty.
What we call walls are merely suggestions. What we call solid is merely an agreement. The orange eye watches without judgment as domestic space becomes a cosmic threshold. Gravity negotiates with new laws here. The stones below mark where fragments fell through.
There is violence in this rupture, yes, but also strange tenderness in how carefully it hovers. Between the known and unknown lies this moment—suspended like the sphere itself. We build rooms to feel safe from vastness. The vastness finds us anyway.
Each crack maps a pathway to elsewhere. Each fissure invites exploration. The window frames ordinary daylight while extraordinary darkness blooms inside.
This is transformation without permission. This is becoming without warning. The sphere doesn't explain itself. It doesn't need to.
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