wut?

A gray sphere.

Retaining its shape underneath my feet, the sphere exists in a state of limbo- held in equilibrium by pressure from inside and outside. The sphere is composed of a manufactured, plastic substance, its surface smooth and dry. Concentric circles decorate its grey uniformity, starting from the top, and progressing evenly towards the bottom. Although it may look similar to equators on a globe, these raised ridges only create differences in texture. The smooth and dry surface is interrupted by these minor ripples, which seem to serve no particular purpose other than ornamental. 

The sphere is unstable, and thus rolls around its dark confines discontentedly. Full of kinetic energy that was transferred from my movement, it seems to sit menacingly, biding its time. Occasionally it squeaks nonsense no human can understand- even if they do, they cannot comprehend. The gray tediousness of the restless object seems to suck the heat from its surroundings. I disapprove. 

Now it rolls back and forth in a feral rhythm, picking up months old grime in the process. Perhaps it fancies itself to be a caged beast, iron-wrought muscles wasting away from disuse. Perhaps it feels wrongfully imprisoned- a prisoner struggling against the inevitable. Who am I to say?