All my queries turn to slag. "Cat videos" — cinders. "How to be happy" — a cooling rock. The homepage is a Pompeii of hyperlinks.
Mr. Doob watches from his JavaScript throne, no expression, just the quiet satisfaction of a god who pressed delete physics and then undo just to watch things fall twice. google gravity lava mr doob
No, Mr. Doob. Today, everything is heavy. Today, even light bends toward the center of your joke. All my queries turn to slag
And still the page asks: Feeling lucky?
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. The homepage is a Pompeii of hyperlinks
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.