an observer in the background swells over the eras. she is hit low by invention. she is hit low by the dreams of machines. all of the gears churn to produce light, the faint whirring sound echos off the walls of her bleached forehead. there are no smells here, nor fatigue. all is bathed in the tiny patterns and formations, the variance of organism's shedding or wheel's kissing the dirt and leaving uncured pock marks bears the same weight.
so her head became the product of design, holding a device to protect her from her own progress. ankles crossed, the races continue.
here where shape mirrors what has come and will be. here where color attempts to become familiar.
