Your Ford drabbles are so weirdly poetic. I feel like you should give your hand at poetry, you'd be really good at it.
Oh, I've been waiting for this one. Here's a random poem I wrote about Ford and "Reader".
🌸🌸🌸
He catalogued the world in careful lines,
labeled each variable, each cause, and each end.
A life of absolute certainty, of questions answered cleanly.
But this .
This did not fit inside a margin in his journal.
It arrived without hypothesis, unannounced as weather,
soft as a variable he could not isolate.
A presence that altered every constant without his permission.
He finds himself observing the absurdities:
the curve of a smile he cannot graph, the warmth of a voice that resists any replication,
the strange acceleration of his pulse, he counts the beats of his heart with all twelve fingers.
with seemingly no discernible trigger.
He wonders if this is simply error,
or some late corruption in the data in his admittedly, many many years.
Or even worse,,
a truth he never thought to test.
And still, despite himself,
he returns to it. Again, and again.
As if for the first time, he has discovered something that refuses to be understood by his all-knowing mind.
Only to be felt.
"A scientist's first infatuation"
