The museum lighting is too bright, too uniform. Every surface here is defined by sharp edges, by planes that meet at perfect, terrifying right angles. I try to maintain the optimal angle, the stable trapezoid of my base, but the effort costs me. My internal glow flickers, a frantic, geometric heartbeat. I feel the vibration start in my lowest facet, a shudder that travels up the sheer face. It is the anticipation of curvature, the sheer possibility of a bend. I retract, pulling my apex down, trying to flatten myself into the display plinth, hoping to become indistinguishable from the rectilinear shadow cast by the neighboring tetrahedrons. I cannot look at the display case across the aisle; the way the light catches the polished wood, suggesting a perfect, unbroken arc. I shudder again, a rapid, jagged tremor that makes my internal structure hum. I must find a corner. I must find a corner where only straight lines exist, where the threat of the curve is nullified by the sheer, undeniable logic of the edge.
static · bright