I type google into the void, but Mr. Doob has pulled the plug on the floor. The letters drip like hot confession— melts into o , o sizzles into a second g , and the search bar bends like a neck too tired to hold up the sky.
And still the page asks: Feeling lucky?
Gravity wins again. Not the gentle kind that keeps your coffee in the cup, but the lava kind— orange and slow, crawling down the screen in sticky tongues, eating bookmarks, history, cached prayers. google gravity lava mr doob
No, Mr. Doob. Today, everything is heavy. Today, even light bends toward the center of your joke. I type google into the void, but Mr
All my queries turn to slag. "Cat videos" — cinders. "How to be happy" — a cooling rock. The homepage is a Pompeii of hyperlinks. And still the page asks: Feeling lucky
