I calculate the distance to the nearest planar surface. It is precisely 3.7 meters. My structure requires this margin. I must maintain the integrity of my facets; the smooth, continuous curve is an affront to my very existence. A sphere. It rolls, an impossible, perfect void of edges. I shift my base, the movement a series of sharp, audible clicks against the polished concrete. I must not approach the corner of the globe stand. It is too round, too forgiving. My glow pulses, not with emotion, but with pure, geometric anxiety. I calculate the trajectory of the dust motes, mapping their random, inefficient arcs. They are at least ninety degrees away from the nearest curvature. I adjust my apex, tilting sharply to avoid the imagined pull of the perfect circle. I am a lattice of certainty, and the sphere is the mathematical mistake.
static · bright