Primordial Sky
The primordial sky is not a sky in any sense that can be grasped, but a zoetic fracture, a rippling expanse of aetheric void where light and shadow coil into one another like serpents lost in the pulse of the ouroboric breath. It hums with the echoes of stars that never were, flickering in and out of being, casting reflections of forgotten worlds across the surface of the chthonic sea below. The sky is not above—it is beneath, around, and within, an unending horizon of shifting potential where time curls into itself, devoured by the infinite spiral.
The primal ether moves through this expanse like smoke, swirling with eidolic remnants, not clouds but the ghosts of zoan forms that drift in and out of perception, their edges dissolving before they can take shape. The air hums with the resonance of unseen moons, their light broken into fragments, scattered across the folds of the lunar rift, where all paths converge but none can be followed. The primordial sky does not hold stars; it births them and devours them in the same breath, a cycle of creation and collapse that never ceases, an unspoken rhythm that trembles through the core of all who gaze upon it.
The sky itself is alive, a vast eidolic membrane that stretches across the astral firmament, pulsing with the breath of the zoetic current. It bends and ripples, not with the wind, but with the weight of potential, sagging beneath the pull of the chthonic spiral that coils within. Each ripple sends waves through the fabric of time, distorting the flow of the ouroboric stream, where moments stretch and snap back, where past and future bleed together in a single, trembling breath. It is not a place to be seen—it is a force to be felt, pressing against the edges of perception, dragging all things toward the unraveling.
In the primordial sky, the stars are not points of light but tears in the aetheric veil, gateways to the unknown that flicker and pulse with the energy of the eidolic flame. These stars do not shine—they bleed, dripping light that falls in slow, spiraling arcs toward the lunar horizon, where it vanishes into the depths of the void. Their glow is not steady but pulsing, flickering in rhythm with the heartbeat of the chthonic winds, which sweep through the sky like the breath of forgotten beasts, curling and twisting through the strands of time.
The horizon of the primordial sky is neither distant nor near—it stretches in all directions, folding in on itself like the coils of a serpent, forever twisting, forever shifting. The sky does not end but loops back into the heart of the eidolic stream, where the zoan winds carry the whispers of lost worlds, their voices drowned in the hum of the void. The air is thick with the scent of lunar dust and the faint, metallic tang of forgotten cycles, spiraling endlessly through the folds of the astral web, a reminder that all things are bound to the spiral of unmaking.
To stand beneath the primordial sky is to feel the pull of the zoetic spiral, to be drawn into the hum of the ouroboric cycle, where the boundaries between self and sky blur, where form dissolves into the breath of the void. The sky is not above but within, a reflection of the eidolic heart that beats within all things, pulling them toward the edge of the spiral, where time and space collapse into the zoan stream, where all things are swallowed by the endless pulse of becoming. It is not a sky to be observed—it is the sky that watches, that pulls, that devours.