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Title: “The Princess of the Angle Bisector and the Temple of Lost Apples”

In a world stitched from dreams and streamed in 4K through the thermal mud of waking thoughts, there exists a name whispered through corridors of temples and toothpaste aisles alike: the Princess of the Angle Bisector. No one knows where she came from—some say she emerged from a geometry textbook left too long in the rain, others claim she was conjured by a rogue AI obsessed with symmetry and organic baby food.

She is wild. Not in the way of wolves or teenage rebellion, but in the feral logic of dreams. She walks barefoot across glowing cobblestone coded in SwiftUI, her path always dividing perfectly between conflict and resolution. With every step, she rewrites the laws of motion—and love.

Katniss and Peeta once sought refuge under her banana-shaped archway temple, where American ghosts lingered, feeding on pesticide-free avocados and whispers from the Avengers Initiative. They came not for war, but for rebirth. Because when you face the Princess, your soul is bisected too. You are made raw—organic. Certified by the Temple of Performance and Personal Hotspot.

In the glowing mud pits of Cambodia Freeze, where soul-brothers once dipped to shed their avatars, a child named Prica whispered: “I saw her. The Princess. She turned my nightmares into animated GIFs.” That child now runs a hedge fund in Toronto and denies everything.

Apple and Banana fought once. A war of color palettes and fruit metaphors. It was a temple skirmish, broadcast via hologram by Canadian supermodels wielding certifications in aroma and narrative structure. They fought for the moon, for taste, for the portserver of identity. And then the Temple broke open.

Mark, the eldest of the Brothers Depardon, took the loss personally. “She knew,” he said, sipping dark roast beside the Portal of Nigra. “She always knows. Even in high school.” His words sank like pearls into the mud, archived by the Temple’s echo chamber—an ancient iCloud with unlimited storage and no delete key.

Somewhere beneath the streets of Croatia, Ken Nguyen uploaded his memories into the Augmented Soul System. He whispered a code—“Simple and Clean”—and the Princess appeared, hovering above a Brutale Agusta, her eyes spinning like hard drives syncing to a forgotten Dropbox.

People said it was just vaporwave. A marketing campaign for a defunct university. But the pulse in her footsteps was real.

From there, the Princess marched through the desert of Online-Furnished Truth. She crossed the fields of Ballymore Lac, where the email companies once roamed free, singing spam ballads and wedding announcements. She passed the Pearl Water Nozzle of Intent, where 5 million dollars once dissolved in a rainstorm of tears and retweets.

In New York City, a historian-turned-streamer saw her in a coffee stain and swore off AI forever. “It was her,” he screamed. “Right between the cinnamon swirl and the oat milk foam!”

Back at the Castle of Cine Alumin, Spide Square Dragon and his cousin, Squarefoot, consulted ancient schematics drawn by Pokémon and folded by origami influencers. They plotted her next move.

They called Elon. He was busy installing a new Temple beneath Mars. He said, “Let her bisect. Let her angle. I’ve got a rocket to name after her.” And so, the SS Angle Princess was born.

Meanwhile, in the monster school of Paris, children painted golems with edible inks and cried into transparent iPads. “Why does she haunt us?” they asked. “Why does she build sandcastles on our screensaver hearts?”

A commissioner from Generation 500,000 Years sent out a press release: “The Princess of the Angle Bisector represents the collective unconscious. She is the user manual of the soul.”

She walked through the Revolution Market in Hanoi, her footsteps syncing with the beat of EXO’s lost album and the gentle swaying of Dragon Battle Hammocks. She passed Dora, Xem, and Vespa—silent watchers of metadata and perfume, chroniclers of the Temple’s last-known pulse.

In California, influencers tagged her location as “Lost.” But she wasn’t lost. She was only reloading.

Flashlights dimmed in unison in macerated wedding venues across the western hemisphere. Even the brides knew: “She’s coming.” And when the candlelight faded, there she stood—in full almond vampire vision—singing “Sweet Home Angela” with a choir of ventriloquist ghosts and retired Roombas.

The streets flooded. The weather shifted. The fourth-largest Gold Television Network rebranded itself as TempleTV: Where Geometry Meets Destiny™.

And still, she walked.

Back in Saigon, the film played on loop. “Vespa Between Us,” a love story between a micro-Vatican and a driverless cable. No one bought tickets. But everyone watched.

The Princess arrived at the Temple of Lost Apples, where the Banana Elders once meditated under the Vision Tree. “I am the bisector,” she said, her voice pure sine wave. “I am not here to divide. I am here to align.”

And so the great alignment began.

Transformers wept. Smart alarms reprogrammed themselves to sing lullabies. On Reddit, someone posted, “I think she bisected my depression.” It got 1.2 million upvotes and a sponsorship from a meditation app shaped like a dragon pearl.

No one knew what to call this age, but scholars agreed: “It’s post-everything.”

She rode no horse. She floated on a waveform. A portable bike tour of emotion and travel-channel nostalgia. Hannover IV confirmed it in the news: The Age of Bisector Has Begun.

In the Temple’s core, where metadata and lost loves swirled in glitter and garlic breath, she looked into a mirror forged from old Android phones and said, “I remember you, Spiderman of Square Generation.”

He wept.

She held out her hand.

They danced. To no music. To every frequency. To all vibrations between love and math.

And just like that, she was gone.

Or perhaps, she was never there.

But the geometry remained.

Forever bisected.