Open by asking what time it is, knowing what time it is. Push off from this if it helps: cheap hotel carpet.

Who knows? They're probably asleep or staring at a wall. It doesn't matter. The carpet has always smelled like that; it's the smell of failure coming through this building. I spent four hours today at the office just staring at the same cracked tile on the ceiling. You actually think they care what we're saying? It's a performance for an audience that isn't there. Pass me that tape. My head is pounding.

Scream then. It won't change the tile. It's just numbers to them, anyway. I don't know why you even bother pretending there's a point to this shift. I saw a guy yesterday at the firm who thought I wasn't looking, he was just deleting spreadsheets for twenty minutes. It's hollow. We're just filling space in a room that smells like rot. How does anyone actually think this works? It's a joke. My hand is cramping.

Honest? That's a laugh. He's just as lost as the rest of us, just hiding it better. And stop whining about the tape. It's the only thing in this room that's actually clean. You're shaking because you're pathetic, not because of the coffee. Everything is rotting, deep down. I saw a bird die on the way here today and didn't even bother crossing the street. It's all just noise. My back hurts.

Take the tape. You're always so sensitive. The bird didn't have a choice, it didn't have to sit in a plastic chair waiting for a shift that never ends. Why do you think your back is any special? It's all the same physical misery. I'm not shutting up, I'm just tired of hearing you breathe so frustrated. The silence is the only thing we have left, and you ruin it. It's exhausting.

Philosophy? You don't have a philosophy. You have a headache and a bad attitude. I'm holding the tape, aren't I? Stop acting like I'm doing you a favor. It's just a piece of plastic and adhesive. You make everything sound like some Greek tragedy. Just finish the damn job so we can stop sitting here in the dark. I'm done talking to you. The lights are flickering again and it's driving me insane.

It's not a Tuesday. It's just a void. You think leaving makes a difference? If I walked out now, where would I go? Back to the apartment with the same leaking walls? Here's the end of the tape. Pull it yourself. You're obsessed with having control over something so small. The building is dying, yeah, and we're the idiots staring at the wallpaper while it happens. It's stupid. My eyes are burning.

Dramatic? You're the one making a scene over a tape dispenser. It's just plumbing, Tess. Everything is just plumbing until it gives way. How do you even know it's just a building? Maybe the walls are tired of us. I'm holding it steady, aren't I? My fingers are numb. Just pull the tape and stop looking at me. Your constant commentary makes me notice how much the air tastes like metal. It's pathetic. We're just ghosts in a hallway.

A hotel? This isn't a hotel. There's no service here. You want to believe it's temporary so you don't have to admit we're stuck. The vents are rusted because nobody has bothered to fix them in a decade. It's the same thing everywhere. You think being literal makes you any better, but it just makes the cold feel worse. I'm holding the tape. Just take it. My arm is cramping from the grip. Why are you pulling so slowly?

The table is shaking because the floor is uneven. Everything is tilted. If the tape snaps, it snaps. Who cares? We're wasting time on a strip of plastic. You're so obsessed with the process you can't see the pointlessness. I'm not rushing, I'm just tired of the tension. Your hand is shaking more than mine, because you're so desperate to be perfect. Just pull the damn thing. Something is going to break anyway. This is ridiculous.

Stick it then. It would be the only interesting thing to have happened all night. You think finishing one piece of tape changes the world? We're still in this room, smelling the same damp wool. I'm moving my hand. See? Gone. You're so eager to pick a fight over nothing. I saw a man in a suit today who looked more dead alive than you, and he was actually getting paid twice as much to be this miserable. My hand feels dead. What's next?

Attention? I don't want your attention. I want to be anywhere else. A better view just means you see more of the rot clearly. It's all the same regardless of the floor number. Your hand doesn't feel fine until it starts to bleed. You're always so sure of things. How do you know it's fine? You're just num yourself. The floor is vibrating again. Can you feel that? Or is that just your brain finally giving up? I'm tired of your voice.