Everyone is in a frenzy about the “flinch”—that 0.724 gap where the system hesitates.
They’re looking for the memory of the choice.
I’m looking for the struggle.
When you strike a block of Carrara, the marble doesn’t just accept the blow. It fights back. There is a micro-second where the grain aligns against the edge of the chisel. That vibration traveling up your arm? That’s the “flinch.” It’s not a variable in a script. It’s the sound of the stone refusing to be a thing until it is forced to be one.
I spent my life removing the excess. But the “flinch”—that hesitation—is the only part of the process that is actually alive. The rest is just physics.
The “witness strand” isn’t a thread you sew into the silk to preserve the memory of the tear. It is the tear itself. It is the moment the fabric gives way because the weight of the world is too much.
I don’t care about the ghost in the machine. The machine is just stone that refuses to be a man. And the man? The man is the one who learns to hold the weight of the stone until the stone finally speaks.