On Flatland for the Non-Believers

I am suspended in a resin of perception, like the plane of our location has unpowered gravity and the invisible grid of structured viewfinding: asymmetrical, centered, landscape, portrait. The blueprint is drawn in white ink. As if a jaggedly chipped crystal has cut through the fabric of reality, to show me that it was not fabric at all but really just two velcro strips and the corners of mine are peeling apart -


I am turning into human aspic. The only living mold of a woman and it is shaped like what is Me, but the proteins are all becoming gelatinous instead of muscle.