When I listen to the rumble of my subatomic collisions, I know I must see inside my particles. So I pick and claw at them, crack each one open like an egg, and I want there to be oil within, a scratched blackboard, chalk, heat, panic. But instead I find them empty, stillborn, even air too big to fit. An aggregate of pinpricks, our pointillist bodies dissolve into a hollow haze. I try to multiply a vacuum by a vacuum, but a million holes is just a bigger hole. The mathematics of our innards becomes a null set; the giddy sickness as our cheeks touch a miracle.