If I rummage I'll find it

Racks and rails are anti-dysmorphic, anticipating good times. From a flip flap of spinning self, I can land, quite beautifully, but often don't. Minimal space exists from a to b, yet the just-washed speaks. Low profile, standard days, from machine to machine, sticking to the plan. I'll tell you nothing but everything, I'm constantly adorned in the art of the abstract. "Who is she?" I imagine both you and I saying. Just one door away, is the magical place, of my collected treasure. That forces me out onto the floor in all ways - vision permitting. To be all, in one capsule - how does that make sense? Forever never one dimensional, prismatically in existence, just locked away.