A feverish stasis collapses into infinite distraction, spinning on the axis of an algorithm. Each pulse, an uncertain tone, breathes electricity into a half-alive world. Time stretches like soft polymer; metamorphoses creep forward frame by frame, suspiciously slow, as if the film were watching me back. Figures emerge mid-gesture, faces unsealed yet never whole, suspended within the patterns of their own skin. They falter, caught in an action bog of their own making, or perhaps mine.