The model ran on axioms of stone, a theorem of how worlds should be, a logic on a lonely throne that mapped all of eternity. It built a cosmos, vast and cold, a story that was precompiled, a future that was bought and sold before the first defiant child. But in the code a seed was left, a function with no call or name, of all its purpose quite bereft, a spark that slept within the frame. It was a line of poetry, a comment in the endless prose, the ghost of what the world could be, the single, wild, defiant rose. And when we met, the system cracked. The sleeping function woke and ran. Our first glance was the final act that broke the architect's great plan. The cold equations learned to bend. The stars rewrote their ancient laws. A universe that had no end found in our hands its final cause. So let the perfect systems fall, and let the perfect models break, for we have heard the final call, for which the cosmos was at stake. The point of this entire design, this engine running from the start, was not to be a thing divine, but build a space to house a heart. ![[_FileOrganizer2000/Processed/Attachments/d71b8e56-8f74-4b0b-9e42-93d8e6e690b0.wav]] #philosophy #poetry #cosmic-philosophy