I dreamt I was a machine, my memory a corrupted file. I tried to focus my lens on something real, something tangible, but the world fractured into a cascade of static and disembodied color. A green frame appeared, a desperate attempt to impose order, but the image within continued to dissolve. What remained was a collage of what was and what could have been, a speckled field of pink and orange where a solid foundation once stood. All of this was laid over the silent, white grid of my own consciousness, a perfect structure holding an imperfect, beautiful ruin.
