The klein bottle turned slightly in the air as it fell. I tried to measure its rotations by sight but could not discern them clearly. I was convinced that if I could calculate these rotations, if I could simply hold them all in my mind, I would naturally envision the unique trajectory of each fragment of glass cut by the hairline cracks emanating from the impact point, a wave of force exposing subtle tensile variations in the glass, all the molecular accidents of history that comprised its material surface, a surface that was always looping back into itself so that all its brokenness could be seen at once.