By mechanics stress is how a solid's inside wants to move, so stressing out implies our skin is expanding or densifying. Making room for what? asks stress, focused on the inaccesible internal. Pressure shares a unit with stress, can be its cause if point or moment won’t do, but associates more with liquids airs and others external to themselves, whose motion we call flow instead of strain. To pressure, stressing out implies a pull in every direction at once, as when a pistol shrimp shoots by isolating water until what's left can't do anything but boil. This is a courtroom poem, and here engineering differs from my attempts to understand, because this water boiled by isolation is to engineering under abnormally low pressure. What's the Thursday of that week, your honor? If stress is what pressure surrounds, pressure is what flows cross. Drop a tine of tracers to see lines stream; when close that's high pressure, as at the leading edge of a lifting surface or the rapid radio/office voice of lawyers repeating Here, out of custody. And as with streamlines those in this room do not touch, stay laminar, even though it is a room in which you want touch and turbulence, a floorplan whose pews are where the zoo lines up to watch the zookeepers. Above the windows bronzes repeat beehives with sphincterous openings but no bees, understandable in the deadly atmosphere. Since it's been two years, strike conditions A and B. Perhaps the bees too were given that radio-ad outro of probation terms and conditions, a flow in which I barely hear what pulled us here: that any arrest, even released without charges pressed, is a violation threatening ninety-five days behind bars. After an hour in the room simmering worry has settled the pews into a gel of dull waiting, neither stressed solid nor flowing fluid, neither growing from a curious internal nor finding form in moving together, as the tenant we are here to firm is called up & flanked by pistols.