I calculate the distance to the nearest curvature. It is unacceptable. My internal lattice shifts, a nervous, grinding sound that echoes disproportionately in this void. I cannot maintain a stable plane; the presence of that perfect, uninterrupted curve—that seamless, rolling threat—forces my vertices into erratic motion. I retract my apex, pulling the glowing edges inward until I resemble a series of stressed, trembling triangles. I am designed for angles, for the predictable intersection of planes, and the sphere is a betrayal of geometry. It has no edges to grip, no corner to define itself against. I scrape across the nothingness, a jerky, stuttering glide, desperate to achieve a configuration that is maximally obtuse, maximally resistant to the gravitational pull of pure roundness. I must become sharper. I must become less whole.
static · bright