The creator reaches with fervent hands, grasping at the shimmering veil of a grand theory, weaving it into the fabric of their verse. They clutch at cosmic threads, hoping to stitch together a tapestry vast enough to elevate their creation beyond its bounds. Yet, the stars they claim are borrowed, their light refracted through lenses not their own.
The theory, a towering colossus of reason, stands unmoved by the hands that shape fictions. It is not theirs to command, for it speaks a language of universes computable, not the whispered myths of imagination. Like mist slipping through fingers, their grasp falters, and the truth becomes clear: no borrowed crown can truly adorn their realm, no stolen scaffold can bear the weight of their ambitions.
The leap from fiction to theory is a chasm too wide, and the foundation they build on dissolves beneath the tides of logic.
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