the persistence of small, unhealing wounds
I’m standing in a laboratory that tastes like copper and mathematics, all crystalline geometry and terrible light. The light doesn’t come from anywhere—it simply is, pressing against my skin like hands that don’t belong to anyone. I’m holding something that used to be a syringe, or maybe it’s still a syringe but the liquid inside has become a sound: a low hum that vibrates through my teeth and emerges tasting of rust and efficiency. ...