Precision to the edge | but at the core, fluid, vague

Geometric like ice crystals on the surface | but at the centre, diffuse, fickle, unknown

The prose elegantly functional, hand-tooled | but the story interrupted | Then poetry

In a pin-prick murmur | a distant squeal and rumble like old trains | Then a sigh |     | Then nothing

A fuzz and stammer | Four clicks | In a glade in winter, a hunter coughs | A fifth click |     | It flips | Delicate crackle of static electricity | wrapping a silver shudder | A different crackle | like dry paper burning quickly | Then nothing |     | The paint peels | The pier

Mysterious objects necessarily render our progress uncertain | though we proceed regardless | calmed by our methodology |     | Then laughter

The story returns like a spell of fine weather | Before there was more |     | The hunter coughs again | Deer tracks in the snow

Apparent cohesion | but on further inspection | anomalies — some of them beautiful |     | we hope

An empty glade | No human presence for decades |     | A sixth click | Then a motor running | The first of four clicks again | Then flames |     | Then silence

The project approved | but the goals obscure | The report confident | but the case left open — a sound conclusion | based on flawed premises | then silence |     | First, silence

Then ashes

Then poetry

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From distillate05 | SELECTED DIGITAL WORK, Apparent, in preparation