Today I feel the potential explosion of a confetti filled egg. Smooth, sharp, scattered, a thousand harmless bits and pieces flickered by the wayside. Picked up by a child, run over by a bicycle, nudged with the clammy nose of a dog. One false move and it shatters, like a champagne flute tossed into a fire place. My simple facade detonates, shrapnel clawing its way into my unlucky companion. Biologically engineered shards destroy everything in their paths. The image of the explosion is beautifully devastating, invitingly miserable, but none of this matters. It looks harmless, yet destructive, leaving a wake of pain in its confetti mess.
I am built for this; it is not a question of if, but when.
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