...and so too the irresponsibility

When they came for us, we were all ready liquid. They came with talk of concrescence, the slowing or stopping of motion. We were not impressed, surely to not move brings less satisfaction than to move quickly but leave pieces behind.

They were adamant, but lacked a suitable mask and frockcoat. We assumed they had left, our motion making it hard to discern if they still lay where we were. The next cycle we passed them yet again, and again they tried to slow us with deprecating words.

This passed for much of my time, or as we thought it did. We knew not that they had temporarily joined us in motion, if we had we still would not have known why until too late.

Their numbers grew, separating us without a lack of struggle. Our surface tension lost its will to coherence, our stream was split millionfold upon the most vital axes.

We still move, or I assume we do. I have not seen we since the time. Alone I move, more slowly for the loss of cohesion, more saddened for the loss of those like I, but no more a parallel for concrescence as I ever was.

Somehow the whimsy means less to I, we liked it.