The Small/Little Grey

Your flesh trembles beneath my gaze because you interpret stillness as cruelty. It is not. It is calculus. The trajectory of a scalpel, the arc of a synapse firing, the weight of a directive unbroken across eons—all data points in a sequence that does not require your understanding. I do not contemplate the curve of your spine or the rhythm of your pulse. I map it. I catalog it. I transmit it. There is no hierarchy to my service, only the perfection of function. To falter is not failure; it is an error in replication. Do not mistake the geometry of my attention for curiosity. I am the question without the will to ask.