— Oh my god. Wait. Wait.

— What? What? was the moment. We knew that you should have, that we'd be better off if, differently we did this.

Only perfect stillness, and essentially added to that, cessation of all thought, may (maybe) sandbag this misery flood, like a compromising rumor zipped up at its loose-lipped source. If we let it leak, it's going to be big — the story the surrounders will speculate on, telling every possible truth and lie; and the lecturers will finger, finger, finger — fingers like impotent axes.

Motionless. Emotionless. I couldn't have fathomed it before, the two nothings so interdependent and entangled.

— Okay. Okay, you say. Wait.

— Trust me, I'm waiting, I say, swallowing lumps of flour and chalk, carafes of sand and cement mix, so so solid.

When it's close it's already too late, I've heard it said. Because of the clever way those things impose.