Like porcelain thrown before birth-- both shattered and sensing the glue. Complete, but already crazed with breaking. Someone polishes it on the mantle. Someone is trying to put it back together. Someone is watching it fall. Someone was the hand, the air. Someone is the moment when damaged is a fact but the shape remains. Someone is that sudden injection of space, that collapse. Someone is the pieces, the dustpan, the glue. Someone is the worklight, the patience, the room. Someone meant for this to happen. Someone has to decide: repair or dismiss. It happens all at once.