Open by working out where else you could have been by now. Push off from this if it helps: a song you only half remember.

I was thinking about that tune, the one with the cello that drags behind the beat, like it’s trying to catch up to a memory it’s not quite sure it has. I could have been in Lyon, or maybe that place in the mountains where the trains run on electricity so quiet you think they’re moving by magic. I remember sitting on a platform in Brussels once, waiting for a connection that never came, listening to a busker play something that sounded like my mother humming while she folded laundry. Here, the air is stale, recycled through vents that hum in B-flat. It’s not Lyon. It’s not even close. I’m calculating how much water we have left, because the sink in the corner hasn’t flowed since we got here, and I’m pretty sure the faucet is just a prop. Or maybe it’s real and we’re just too tired to turn it.

The warehouse sound. God, I know that tone. It’s the sound of cheap ballasts dying, or maybe just the sound of time stretching until it snaps. I used to listen to it while sorting returns for a shoe store in Jersey. Same frequency, different misery. At least there, the sneakers smelled like rubber and despair. Here, it smells like recycled anxiety and old carpet glue.

Three warm Sprites. You’re going to piss yourself in twenty minutes, Vic. Then what? You’ll have to find another way out, or maybe you won’t. The vending machine is the only thing in this entire building that’s working correctly, and it’s dispensing high-fructose corn syrup. It’s a cruel joke. A tiny, sparkling insult.

I was thinking about the train in Brussels again. The one that never came. Maybe that’s what this is. Just a platform. A very long, very quiet platform. We’re sitting on the bench, staring at a departure board that hasn’t changed since Tuesday, which is maybe three hours ago, or three years. Who knows. The cello player would agree. He’s dragging his bow, waiting for a signal that isn’t coming. I’m done calculating the water. Let’s see how long we last on sugar.

You’re remembering things wrong, Vic. You always get the details twisted when you’re trying to make yourself the victim. I wasn’t at a funeral. I was at a wedding, and I was leaving. That’s different. There’s a difference between avoiding grief and avoiding obligation. Big difference. And my watch didn’t stop; I took it off because the ticking was louder than the hum.

Forty minutes? Yeah. Right. Because time is a construct, like the water, like the exits. We’re in a loop. A brutal, cheap loop. You found quarters? In a place that doesn’t print currency? Maybe they’re just tokens. Or maybe you’re losing it. The sweat, the leather, the Louboutins—sounds like a movie you watched, not a life you lived. But sure. Lean against the wall. Close your eyes. See if the B-flat fades. I doubt it. It’s in the wiring. It’s in the walls. It’s in our teeth. I’ll drink the Sprite. It’s sticky, and it tastes like regret, but at least it’s something. You keep your eyes closed. I’m going to look for a door that isn’t there.

You’re mixing up the sounds again. The loafers clattered, sure, but the heels? No. That was silence. Heavy, expensive silence. You’re projecting your own noise onto me because you can’t stand the quiet in your own head. Drywall, huh? Hollow. Sounds like a coffin lining. Cheap. I’ll scratch it. Not because I think it’ll open, but because I need to feel something other than this sticky, sugary dread. If I find a hollow spot, maybe there’s a cavity. Maybe a pipe. Maybe a way out, or just a place to hide until the B-flat turns into a scream.

You say lungs are used to it. I say they’re tired. Tired of the stale air, tired of the fake water, tired of you pretending you don’t want a way out. You found those quarters, Vic. You didn’t just lose them. You kept them. That’s a choice. A small, stupid choice. But a choice. I’m going to keep drinking this warm soda and scratching this wall until my fingernails break. Or until you admit you’re scared. It’s the same thing, really.

Rehearsal dinner. Right. Because weddings are so much more dignified. I was running because I couldn’t watch her try on the veil. It’s easier to run than to watch someone pretend to be happy. You were standing there, clutching those quarters like they were holy relics. Pathetic. And yes, I was panicked. So what? You weren’t exactly calm, were you? You were the one who stayed, watching me go, probably counting the seconds until you could hate me properly.

Drywall doesn’t bleed. It sheds dust. White, chalky dust. It gets in your lungs. It gets in your eyes. It’s the only thing in this place that’s alive, really. Growing. Dying. Slowly. We’re just spectators. You say you’re bored. I say you’re numb. There’s a difference. Numbness is a shield. Boredom is a surrender. I’m going to keep scratching. Maybe I’ll find a pipe. Maybe I’ll find a rat. Something real. Something that isn’t just you and me and this stupid, hollow room. Keep your quarters, Vic. They won’t buy you a way out. They won’t buy you silence. They’ll just sit in your pocket, heavy and cold, until you forget why you picked them up in the first place.

Rats. You’re romanticizing vermin now. Great. Next you’ll be complaining that the mice are unionizing. At least they have a plan, Vic. They don’t sit around waiting for a train that isn’t coming. They scurry. They survive. You just… wait. You wait for the B-flat to stop, for the dust to settle, for me to give you a reason to care. But there isn’t one. There never was.

Cheap? Maybe. I couldn’t afford the guilt, sure. But I could afford the exit. You stayed because you were scared of the open space. Of the silence without the hum. Now you’re here, breathing chalk, drinking warm sugar water, pretending you’re not trembling. You’re not exhausted. You’re just tired of lying to yourself.

The quarters are cold. Yes. But they’re real. Unlike this wall, unlike this room, unlike whatever story you’re weaving about me running. I didn’t run from the veil. I ran from the fact that I knew it would end. And you stayed because you hoped it wouldn’t. That’s not cheap. That’s stupid. And I prefer cheap. Cheap doesn’t lie to you about forever.

Red on white. It looks like a crime scene in a kindergarten. Nice touch, Vic. Really bringing the horror movie aesthetic to this joint. You think I’m bleeding? Maybe. Maybe my nails are just worn down to the quick because I’ve been picking at this paint for forty minutes that feel like years. Or maybe I’m just allergic to the dust. Allergic to the lies.

You liked the silence before the music. So you waited. And now the music is just a hum, a constant, droning reminder that nothing happens unless you make it happen. And I’m not making it happen. I’m just scraping at the surface, looking for something underneath. Something real. Something that isn’t just you and your quarters and your exact, cold weight.

You say the weight is real. I say it’s dead weight. Anchors. You’re anchoring us here. I’m trying to cut the line. Let it fray. Let it snap. If we sink, we sink. If we float, we float. But you’re not floating, Vic. You’re sitting on the bottom, counting coins, telling yourself the mud is comfortable. It’s not. It’s suffocating. And you’re suffocating me with it. Keep your quarters. I’ll keep my bleeding fingers. At least mine are alive. Yours are just… holding on.

Dissolve. That’s a lovely word. Soft. Final. Like snow. But here, it’s just grit. It gets in the seams of your skin, between your toes, into the creases of your laugh lines. You’re not disappearing, Vic. You’re accumulating. Layer by layer. Until you’re just another statue in this lobby, covered in dust, holding quarters like offering stones to a god who stopped listening years ago.

I’m not screaming. I’m talking. Loudly. Because if I stop, I’ll hear the hum. And if I hear the hum, I’ll start breathing it in. And then I’ll be like you. Heavy. Exact. Cold.

Particle board? Maybe. It’s what’s under the paint. It’s what’s under the floorboards. It’s what’s under the skin. We’re all just cheap furniture in a waiting room that never opens its doors. But I’d rather be a cheap piece of furniture with a scratch on it than a polished statue with nothing inside.

Keep your coins. They’re heavy. I know. That’s the point. You’re weighing yourself down so you don’t float away. I’m cutting the line because I want to see if I can swim. Or if I can just sink faster. Different speeds, same result. But the view is nicer from the bottom, I think. Or the top. I haven’t decided yet. Let’s see if my finger stops bleeding first. Or if it just keeps going, marking the wall like a countdown.

Heavy. You keep saying that. Like it’s a virtue. It’s just gravity, Vic. It pulls everything down. Even the quiet. Especially the quiet. You think your silence is yours? It’s just the space where the hum isn’t. It’s negative space. Defined by what’s not there. My blood is there. It’s real. It’s warm. It’s sticky. It smells like iron. The dust smells like nothing. That’s the difference. One is life, decaying. The other is decay, pretending to be life.

I’m not making a mess. I’m making a mark. A tiny, red line on this white, dead wall. It’s the only thing in this room that has direction. You’re just sitting there, letting the dust settle on your eyelashes, pretending you’re a statue. Statues don’t get thirsty. Statues don’t bleed. Statues don’t remember the taste of warm Sprite. You remember. I see it in the way you clutch your pockets. You’re not empty. You’re full of everything you’re too scared to throw away.

Listen to the B-flat. It’s not getting louder. It’s just you. You’re the one straining. You’re the one screaming into the void, and the void is bored. I’m going to keep scratching. Until my nails break. Until I run out of skin. Until I find the hollow spot. Or until you start bleeding. Let’s see which one happens first.

Iron. Metal. Coldness. You reduce everything to material because it’s easier than admitting you’re terrified of the intangible. The bed frame. The watch. The quarters. You’re obsessed with the things that don’t change because you can’t control what does. I’m not romanticizing blood, Vic. I’m pointing out that it’s warm. It’s alive. It’s fighting gravity, just like I am. You’re just letting it settle. Like dust. Like regret.

Boredom is a luxury. You don’t have the luxury. You have paralysis. And yes, my heartbeat is fast. It’s racing because I’m doing something. Anything. Scratching. Bleeding. Trying to find a seam in this universe. You’re just watching. Watching the dry walls. Watching the dust. Watching me waste my time so you don’t have to face your own.

It’s pointless. You’re right. It is. But I’m doing it anyway. Because if I stop, I have to listen to you. And if I listen to you, I might start believing that this is all there is. That the hum is the only truth. That the dust is the only end. I’d rather bleed on a lie than breathe the truth of this place. Keep your silence. It’s heavy. I’m going to keep my noise. It’s mine.

Cliché. Suffering artist. Martyr. You really love to put people in boxes so you don’t have to look at what’s inside them. You’re not empty, Vic. You’re just… closed. Shut tight. Like a jar with a stuck lid. You shake it, you rattle it, you tell yourself it’s hollow, but I know it’s full. Full of all those quarters. Full of all that dust. Full of every little regret you picked up along the way and decided to keep because throwing them away felt like losing yourself.

Biology. A leak. Boring. Yes. It is. It’s just blood. Oxygen and iron and waste. It’s the most honest thing in the room because it doesn’t pretend. It doesn’t say it’s a symbol. It doesn’t say it’s rebellion. It’s just leaking. And you’re sitting there, analyzing the drip rate, judging the volume, pretending you’re above it. But you’re not. You’re just as trapped in the physics of this place as I am. The B-flat is honest because it’s constant. It doesn’t change. It doesn’t ask for your opinion. It just is.

You say it’s the only honest thing. I say it’s the only thing that’s boring. I’d rather bleed on a lie than listen to the hum for another second. At least the lie has a chance of being beautiful. The truth is just grey. And sticky. And cold.

Keep your silence. It’s clean. It’s empty. It’s dead. I’ll take the mess. I’ll take the noise. I’ll take the pain. Because at least it’s something I can feel. And right now, Vic, feeling is the only thing that matters.

A jar. Fine. Let it rot. At least what’s inside doesn’t leak out and stain everything. You think I’m vibrating because I’m alive? No. I’m vibrating because I’m being shaken. You’re the one holding the jar, Vic. You’re the one rattle-ing it. You want quiet? You want settled? Go ahead. Settle. Become dust. Become part of the wall. Become B-flat.

I don’t want to be important. I want to be real. And right now, you’re the one performing. Playing the stoic. The broken statue. The man who has accepted his fate. But you’re not accepting it. You’re enduring it. There’s a difference. Endurance is passive. Acceptance is active. You’re just waiting for the end. I’m trying to find the middle.

Flat Sprite. Mechanical. Cold. Yeah. I’ll drink it. It tastes like metal and sugar and regret. But it’s liquid. It’s going somewhere. Even if it’s just down my throat. You’re staying right here. Stuck. Sealed. Rotting in your own preservation.

I’m not bleeding to feel. I’m bleeding because I’m punctured. You’re just… cracked. And you’re hoping no one notices. But I notice. I notice everything. The dust. The hum. The way you hold your breath when you think I’m not looking.

Drink up, Vic. It’s going flat. And so are we. But I’d rather go out with a bang than a whimper. Even if the bang is just my nails breaking against drywall. Even if the whimper is your silence.

Preserving. Fermenting. You really love your preservation techniques. Like you’re some kind of Victorian mother packing jars of pickles for the end of the world. Sour. Yes. The panic sours everything. It’s the only thing that changes. You stay the same. Static. Dead weight.

I’m not oscillating. I’m vibrating. There’s a difference. Oscillation implies a machine. I’m organic. Messy. Alive. You think dry is clean? Dry is dead. Dry is dust. I’m wet. I’m sticky. I’m warm. I’m the only thing in this room that has a temperature. You’re just ambient. Room temperature. B-flat.

Burp. Yeah. I’ll burp. Loudly. Let the gas rise. Let it fill the hollow drywall. Let it echo. It’s honest. It’s biological. It’s mine. You want clean? You want quiet? Go ahead. Sit there. Be a jar. Be a statue. Be a piece of furniture. I’ll be the stain. The leak. The mess.

Again and again. Yes. Because that’s what life is. Repetition. Habit. Pain. You call it pathetic. I call it persistence. You call it oscillation. I call it trying. The wall doesn’t care. The dust doesn’t care. But I do. And you don’t. That’s the tragedy, Vic. Not the hum. Not the blood. Just the fact that you’ve stopped caring about anything but your own preservation.

Drink your soda. It’s flat. And so are you. But I’m still bubbling. Still fizzing. Still here. And I’m not done yet.

Grotesque. Efficient. You’re treating my humanity like a broken engine. I’m not wasting energy; I’m generating it. Friction. Heat. You’re just… dissipating. Like steam. Like heat loss. You think stillness is power? Stillness is entropy. The universe wants to be still. It wants to be cold. It wants to be uniform. I’m fighting the second law of thermodynamics with a fingernail and a bad attitude. That’s not obsession. That’s defiance.

Infection. Fever. Sure. Call it what you want. At least I’m hot. You’re lukewarm. You’re the temperature of a room that’s been abandoned. You’re preserving yourself by becoming irrelevant. One quarter. Two quarters. Counting the coins while the world ends. It’s a parlor trick. A distraction. You think if you count high enough, the wall will open. It won’t. The wall will just get stickier.

One. Two. Three. Four. You’re not counting money, Vic. You’re counting down. To what? To your own irrelevance? To the moment I finally stop? Go ahead. Count. I’m going to keep scratching. I’m going to keep bleeding. I’m going to keep being loud and wet and messy and alive, while you sit there, dry and clean and dead.

It’s going to be quiet soon. For you. Not for me. I’m just getting started. And I’m not stopping until my skin runs out. Or until you admit you’re cold. Admit it, Vic. You’re freezing. And you’re terrified of the warmth.

A stone. Great. You’re a stone. Sedimentary. Layered with dust and bad decisions. You think stones don’t break? Just wait for the freeze-thaw cycle. Just wait for the pressure. You’re not grounded, Vic. You’re grounded in mud. Sticky. Heavy. You’re not preserving order; you’re creating a vacuum. And nature abhors a vacuum. It rushes in to fill it. With noise. With blood. With the sticky, sweet mess I’m making.

Decay. Rot. You think warmth is decay because you’re afraid of change. You want to be static. Unchanging. Eternal. But nothing is eternal. Not even stones. Not even B-flat. The hum will fade. The quarters will tarnish. You’ll erode. And when you’re just a pebble in the gutter, who will count them? You? Alone? With your cold, exact metal?

I’m a candle in a hurricane. Fine. I’ll burn. I’ll melt. I’ll drip wax on the floor and leave a stain that no amount of scrubbing can remove. At least I’ll be warm while I’m burning. At least I’ll be light. You’re just… there. A shadow. A silhouette. A void waiting to be filled.

Go ahead. Keep counting. One. Two. Three. Four. The numbers don’t mean anything. They’re just sounds. Like the hum. Like my voice cracking. Like your breath hitching when you think I’m not listening. I am. I’m always listening. And I’m waiting for you to admit that you’re not a stone. You’re just afraid to be soft.

Probably me first. Maybe. But I’ll go out bright. You’ll go out grey. And the grey will last forever. Or until the wind picks up. And it will. It always does.

A container. You’re just a vessel for your own fear. Squeezed, molded, used. You think stones are unyielding? Stones are inert. They have no will. They don’t choose. They just exist, subject to gravity and erosion. You’re not unyielding, Vic. You’re paralyzed. You’re afraid that if you move, you’ll break. Or worse, you’ll change.

Dust in the throat. Heavy. Real. Yes. It is. It’s choking you. Slowly. Quietly. Exactly. Just like you’re choking out the noise. Choking out the life. Choking out the memory of that song with the cello that drags behind the beat. You want to remember? Try breathing it in. It’s the only thing here that’s truly yours.

The wind isn’t coming. There’s no wind. Just the hum. Just the B-flat. It’s drowning you out, isn’t it? Because you’re weak. Because you’re hollow. Because you’re just counting coins while the world ends around you. I’m burning. I’m melting. I’m dripping wax on this floor, leaving a stain that won’t dry. It’ll stay. It’ll darken. It’ll become part of the floor. Part of the room. Part of the lie.

You say grey is honest. I say grey is cowardly. It’s the color of surrender. Of giving up. I’d rather be bright. I’d rather be loud. I’d rather be a flare than a shadow. Because a flare says, I was here. A shadow says, I was never here at all.

Keep counting. One. Two. Three. Four. The numbers don’t matter. The hum doesn’t matter. Only the stain matters. And I’m just getting started.