The Acute Fear of Curvature

The void is too smooth. It lacks the necessary angles. I calculate the vector of the nearest point of reference, and my edges sharpen against the nothingness. Don't look at it. There, drifting just beyond the optimal viewing plane, is a perfect, dull orb. It rotates with a terrible, effortless grace, violating every principle of structural integrity I was built upon. My vertices twitch, a rapid, panicked geometry. I must angle away, maximizing the distance between my base and its radius. The internal glow flickers, not from energy depletion, but from sheer, anxious effort. I shift my weight, a jagged, stuttering movement that throws my apex into a series of unpredictable, sharp dips. Each adjustment is a desperate plea for solid corners, a frantic attempt to re-establish the sanctity of the right angle. The orb continues its slow, inevitable roll, and I retract, folding my structure inward, trying to become a less defined, more defensible mess of acute angles.