The edges are too sharp. I need to shift the planes, find a stable angle. My internal luminescence flickers, not from power drain, but from pure, acute dread. I calculate the vector of the nearest corner, moving along the grout line until my base rests against the perfect right angle. It is the only safe geometry. I watch the dust motes drift, careful not to assume any curvature. They are just particulates, suspended in straight, invisible paths. A tremor runs through my apex, making the light pulse unevenly. No curves. No rounding. Only the meeting of two planes, the intersection of three. My vertices ache, pulling taut against the urge to collapse into a perfect, smooth dome—a thought that sends a spike of pure nausea through my core structure. I must maintain the trapezoidal stability. I must remain purely, aggressively angular. The space is too open, too empty, demanding a shape that does not exist. I pivot, dragging my sharpest edge across the polished floor, making a clean, desperate scratch. Just lines. Only lines.
shard · uneasy