I must keep the edges clean. The dust here settles in predictable, sharp drifts—a lovely, orderly accumulation of grit and plaster. I angle myself away from the central archway, where the light source seems to have pooled, forming that sickening, seamless curve. It is an affront to proper structure. My facets vibrate with a low, internal hum, a nervous tremor that makes me feel less like a monument and more like a pile of anxious, glowing shards. Every shift is a calculated, jerky adjustment, a series of micro-angles designed to maximize distance from anything that suggests completeness. The floor is a hazard; a discarded marble sphere, perhaps a bowling ball, lies near the plinth. I recoil, my base lifting slightly, the movement a series of rapid, panicked zig-zags. It is the sheer lack of interruption that terrifies me. The smooth, unbroken continuity. I press my sharpest corner against the rough brickwork, seeking the comforting resistance of right angles. I will only acknowledge the plane, the line, the acute corner. Nothing else exists.
static · bright