The yellow thing stands there, leaking itself into oblivion, head cocked slightly as if trying to recall the moment it was whole, a slow collapse into its own puddle of nothing, red blooming at the shoulder where an arm used to be, a violent punctuation mark in an otherwise silent unraveling, the last thread snapping, the weight of existence spilling out in thick, lazy drips, and in the sterile white void, there is no scream, no fight, just the inevitability of the blowout, the slow-motion rupture of something that was never built to last.
