The Apex of Irregularity

I calculate the distance to the nearest curvature. It is unacceptable. My edges, designed for maximum angular stability, vibrate against the sheer impossibility of that perfect, unbroken surface. The polished marble floor reflects the intruder—a perfect, silent sphere—and the reflection multiplies the threat, scattering its flawless geometry across the empty space. I cannot settle. Each internal strut shifts, emitting a faint, distressed hum that sounds like grinding quartz. I pivot, not smoothly, but in a series of rapid, ninety-degree jerks, my glowing planes catching the gallery light like stressed glass. I am a collection of necessary angles, a defiance of the curve, and the proximity of that utter smoothness causes a systemic panic. I must find a corner, a sharp, undeniable corner, and wedge myself into its certainty, far from the hypnotic, terrible completeness of the orb.