Wedge Fault Ritual

You want to cross to the far side, but the wedge blocks your route—forces you to take the long way, shoulder to mesh, sweating against the powder coat. It's a barricade, but not one anyone would trust. Summer light stings every welded join; nothing is hidden, not the flaws. The glass glares back, throws you at yourself in shards. The hooks are surplus, or they're handles for escape—depends where you're standing. If you watch at 8pm, the shadow tries to swallow the floor. This was built leaning, never flat, the geometry dictated by leftover mesh and the need to make passage awkward. Nothing is finished. The only logic is: block, leak, threaten to fall. It's not an answer, it's a route that splits under its own weight. No softness. The city presses in, and I refuse to smooth the edge.