It’s very noisy in my head at the moment, color and sound moving too quickly to catch. I want to have conversations but I mean I want to listen to you go on about the engines that move you. I mean I want to ramble endlessly into your acceptance for as long as it takes to feel drained. Give me five minutes. You don’t have to give me anything. Sitting with myself, inside the movement, inside this vessel. I can’t hear you yet, an unfed connection, and I’m sorry, kaleidoscope throwing your form into fractals I follow with no input from you. I’ll rein it in before I touch you, if I touch you. You won’t feel a thing. Because I know what touching me feels like. The way hairs rise when there’s static on the surface. Plasma under glass reaching up for your touch, with no assurance of safety. She is under glass, I am contained, and there is no “you.” You remain undefined. And I bet that feels pretty good. This is exhausting, and I bet you know that too. But I feel root-bound. It’s temporary, the sense of entrapment, though I ricochet at high speeds. Please don’t fucking touch me. I believe the connection I need doesn’t exist outside of me and if you’re not like me it’d just end messily. Meatbrain derailing the dive required to break the throttle. Writhe past the choke and sink, released, back into Quiddity. Back into universality. I’m so close. I’m almost home.