The heat is a flat, unbearable plane, and the dust settles into precise, sharp angles on my facets. I hate the dust. It is too granular, too unpredictable, yet even it is safer than the curvature. My edges ache, vibrating against the sheer terror of the horizon. There, by the collapsed cistern, is a perfect, polished orb—a discarded, petrified ball bearing, perhaps. It catches the sun and reflects it back in a sickeningly smooth arc. I retract. My base scrapes against the grit, sending up a spray of crystalline dust that tastes like failure. I cannot face the seamlessness of it. I must move, but the movement is not locomotion; it is a series of defensive jerks. I pivot, my glowing seams flaring brighter with every panicked shift, trying to find a corner, a jutting piece of masonry, anything that refuses to round out. My geometry is a shield. I am a collection of necessary angles, and I will not be undone by the illusion of completeness.
splinter · bright