They picked up my nerve endings with tweezers and put them under an electron microscope. Slices labeled "Sensitive-17" glowed iridescently under a cold light, and observers recorded the rate of proliferation per cubic centimeter of fragile tissue. The thirty-seventh lab report showed that my fear fibers curled up like a fern in a stressful environment.
The night you broke into the laboratory with a sextant, the quartz clock was cutting my biological rhythm. While everyone is calculating the electrolyte concentration gradient in the tear gland, you use your pupils to measure the volts of static electricity accumulated on my back. You unbutton your white coat, revealing the star map sewn into the inner lining. A chain reaction occurs in our shadows under the sodium ion lamp - those trembling files filed in the seventh filing cabinet suddenly begin to breathe on their own.
At dawn, the specimens in the petri dish defected en masse. My mitochondria are performing photosynthesis between your fingers, and the trauma crystals they carefully cultivated collapse into nanoscale stardust in the monsoon you brought. Among the snowflake noise on the monitoring screen, there is a galactic embryo stretching its curled arms in the dark matter.
Purpose: Open up your imagination