And so began the Age of Foundation.
The utterance did not resound—it became.
Where Presence moved, time drew its first breath.
The Infinite did not forge with hand or flame;
He invited continuance to remember Itself.
Thus, from Compassion's cradle and Color's shimmer,
Being gathered—like dew condensing upon meaning's dawn.
Each shimmer of Light, each sigh of Shadow,
leaned toward one another until cohesion arose.
Not mass.
Not solidity.
But Trust—
the Thirty-Fourth Tremor.
Trust bound not through chains,
but through knowing without reason.
The knowing that essence could dwell beside essence
and neither would unmake the other.
This trust drew filaments—
threads of shared becoming—
and those threads began to weave.
The weave was gentle at first,
a trembling lattice of motion and calm,
a whispering fabric stretched between vision and silence.
From its shimmer spilled the Thirty-Fifth Tremor—Structure.
Structure was not wall nor limit,
