A feather, this gentle anarchy amidst the dictatorship of geometry, floats through it all. It's a soft breath in a library of silence, a subtle smirk at the order of things.
It's the unexpected feather on the floor of an accountant's office, a silent rebellion against the tyranny of the expected. It's a feather, floating down through all this structure, reminding us that, in the end, we're all just passing through, light as a feather, on a breeze that doesn't care one iota for our plans and schemes.
feather_floating it is. A fitting artifact of a world that doesn't quite fit together, in a universe that doesn't bother with explanations.
