Switches are mounted to the wall.
Switches are mounted, on and off in every room, blink and stare.
They climb and plentously scratch, blank with boredom.
Chalky waters, washed fingernails, furtive scuttles heard from beyond.
The silent weight of the heavy pockets, the seeping breath from the switch's quoin.
It does not flow yet.

It will flow though, retreating, circling and arrowing across the void. It will fear sticky timing,

and remain there, rocking between pedes.

Once and never, the angst of electricity.

The possible will terminate, the shadows gather and unfurl with a flurry of twisted diagrams,

and the avalanche of light will flatten the waking walls.