One white page. One black dot. One white page with one black dot. That is all. You see it. Good. Now wiggle that dot. Just a tad. Watch it shake. A single vibrating cell. A fly in the wind. Trembling up. And down. And down and up and right and left. It's a ***** smudge ruining your clean page. So rub it out . With your pencil thin rubber. But it dodges like a boxer's head. A darting fish. You want to get rid of it. You want a clean white page. Plant your rubber down. A dramatic staff in the ground cracks the white soil. But it circles you. That fly, that fish, that blurred boxer. That singular cell. It circles your staff. Your statement. Magnetically. A metal ball. Orbiting your invisible eraser. To erase the invisible dot. But it is there. Circling faster. Wider. Angrier. Leaving a trail behind. Too fast for the eye. The sultry smoke of speed. The slipstream of a cannonball. The page is warped. Earthquake epicentre on the A4. Shook by the fault lines. Jutting canyons drop down. Ledges crumble and crash. Sugared pie crust hit with a hammer. Everything collapses. Invisible things are also under the spell spell of gravity. Hit on the head by invisible apples. But it's not invisible. It's not a cell. A fly or smudge. An agile boxing fish head. A cannonballing canyon pie. It's not even a white page. Nevermind the black dot. It's nothing. Not a thing. Not invisible, butΒ Β the kind of nothing that can't be seen. Yet there it is.