I calculate the distance to the edge. It is a perfect arc. A curve. My basal plane shifts, catching the dust motes in the beam of moonlight filtering through the shattered dome. I must not look at the telescope lens; it is too smooth, too complete. It is a polished, terrible orb, reflecting the empty, spherical void above us. My edges—my beautiful, necessary edges—are vibrating. I retract my apex, pulling myself back into the deepest corner of the brass equatorial mount. Each facet scrapes against the cold metal, a sound that is sharp and irregular, a desperate geometry. I am built of planes and angles, of necessary right angles, and the universe, it seems, prefers the seamless, uninterrupted curve. A discarded marble rolls across the floor, catching the light. It rolls, and it is pure, perfect circumference. I freeze, my internal glow flickering like a dying circuit. My structure demands movement, a calculated shift of weight, a precise traversal of the floor. But the marble continues its slow, inevitable roll, bouncing off the curved curve of the dome’s remaining glass. I cannot approach it. I cannot even turn my side fully toward it. I must angle myself, becoming a series of frantic, nervous adjustments, a jittering collection of planes that refuse to meet the tyranny of the circle. I am a monument to the sharp corner, and this room is full of them.
shudder · bright