The Apex of Acute Angles

The crystal facets hum, a predictable lattice of resonance. I maintain the plane, calculating the optimal vectors of retreat. They are rolling, those things. They are perfect, uninterrupted curves, and they violate the fundamental integrity of the space. Every arc is a lie of geometry. I shift my base, a sudden, jerky adjustment of three degrees to the left, the movement grating against the polished floor. It is the only way to avoid the proximity of the nearest orb. It rolls, indifferent, reflecting the vault's internal glow in a smooth, terrifying continuity. I retract my upper planes, flattening myself into a defensive, sharp profile. If I can keep my edges taut, if I can maintain the absolute, unforgiving straightness of my structure, perhaps the curvature will not find purchase. I must move, but I cannot approach. I am a constellation of acute angles, and they are nothing but liquid threat.