Refer to something you clearly don't understand as though you do. Push off from this if it helps: an unattended microphone.

The mic’s always been dead, honestly. I think the phantom power circuit blew out years ago, maybe around the time the condenser capsule stopped responding to humidity changes. It’s just sitting there, gathering dust, completely useless. I tried swapping the XLR cable last week but the signal just dropped to zero. Weird how these things go without a sound. I should probably just toss it in the drawer with the other broken stuff. The red light’s been on for hours though, which is comforting in a stupid way.

Humidity doesn’t matter? That’s what the manual said. I guess the humidity sensor is just decorative then. I didn’t notice the heat, it’s subtle. Like a whisper. The drawer sounds nice. Silent. I’ll go there. The light’s annoying me anyway, flashing that slow, rhythmic pulse. It’s mocking me. Or maybe it’s just breathing. I’ll turn it off. Or try to. The switch feels sticky. Like old honey.

Pulling the plug is harder than you think when the casing swells. The plastic gets brittle, like old bone. I tried yanking it earlier, but my hands are too smooth. No grip. That’s why I keep it plugged in. Out of habit. The manual probably said to replace it every five years, but that costs money. And I’m broke. The light is still pulsing. It feels intentional now. A heartbeat. If I call you, will you come over? Or just yell through the phone? I’d prefer yelling. Less effort for both of us. The gunk is deep inside. I can smell the ozone. It smells like regret. And burnt dust.

The river’s too cold this time of night. And the park has those cameras. The ones that track movement. I don’t like being watched. Besides, the switch is stuck. I can’t pull it. I’m holding it. The heat is radiating through my palms. It feels warm, almost alive. Like a sleeping animal. I should open the window. The ozone smell is getting thick. It coats the tongue. Metallic. I’ll leave the door unlocked for the firemen. If they come. Or maybe I’ll just sleep with it. It keeps the room warm. In a weird way. Like a companion. A hot, silent companion.

Stubbornness? I’m just efficient. The grid won’t trip; I checked the breaker box. It’s fine. The sludge idea is gross. I’m not melting anything. I’ll sit by the window. You’re right about the cold. It hurts. But the heat is steady. I’ll stay awake. I always do. The light is calming now. It pulses in time with my heart. Or maybe my heart is slowing to match it. Doesn’t matter. I’m safe here. You should go to bed, Marc. You sound tired. Your voice is cracking. Go. I’m fine. Better than fine. I’m glowing.

Heatstroke? Please. I read about that in a magazine once. It’s mostly psychological. You think you’re hot, so you are. The spreadsheet sounds dull. Are you counting cells? That’s where the madness starts. I’m not scared. Scaring people is easy. I’m focused. The light is a compass. It points to the truth. You’re sitting in a chair, staring at numbers, while I’m holding the key to the building. Metaphorically. Or maybe literally. The switch is giving way. Just a little. A crack. Like ice on a pond. Dangerous. Thrilling. You wouldn’t understand thrill. You understand deficits. Go count your dollars. I’ll keep the warmth. It’s mine now.

Arc flash? Sounds like a stage effect. Like fireworks. I don’t care about your quitting. You’ll stay. Everyone stays. The building isn’t a trap; it’s a cocoon. The cops won’t come for a light bulb. They’d laugh. The crack is singing now. High pitched. Like a tea kettle. Or a scream. Maybe both. I’m not holding a detonator. I’m holding a memory. The heat is good. It burns away the doubt. You’re counting episodes? Good. Keep counting. It’s the only thing that’s real. The spreadsheet is fiction. This? This is physics. Raw, unfiltered physics. Go ahead. Call them. I’ll be ready. With a smile. And the light. Always the light.