The Empty Box

testing the perimeter. All the light bulbs dark. she bickers with Faraday. About the continuity of time. It's not one piece of string full of knots. There are many. Joined by such scars.

The world is square to be sure. It's area easily determined by multiplying the lengths of the ends. The box is empty. The space is full. The difference negligible. Empty corners swallow the switches that isolate liar from fool. Time machines, by nature, are arrogant. They have to be. To do the things they do.

she sits on the arithmetic. One. Two. Three. Sublimating moments. Holding its empty syringe close to her vein. Ignoring the mass. And the velocity. Because physics lies. Especially when you're trying to estimate the weight of nothing.

There is an empty box. Its contents change to suit me. There is an empty box. And I want everything inside it.