Start with something you'd only say at this hour. Push off from this if it helps: the deep end.

God, that word. Deep end. Like we’re diving into something cold and dark. I was staring at the ceiling a while ago, thinking about how shallow everything is. The coffee here is basically hot water with a medium roast shaped like a tragedy. I keep thinking about the pool at the rec center, the one with the cracked tiles. You know the one. That specific, chlorinated smell that sticks to your hair for days. I’d give anything to be there. Just floating. Not solving the quarterly projections. Not pretending I care about the font on the memo. Just sinking. Or floating. Whichever requires less effort. It’s quiet now. Too quiet. Can you hear the hum? It’s driving me crazy. I need to go outside. Or in. I don’t know.

Green tiles. Ugh, you’re right. It’s always the green. That sickly, institutional green that makes your teeth ache. And the concrete beneath. Yeah, that’s it. The grit. The smell isn’t just chemicals; it’s old water trapped in stone. I hate how specific you are about the head hitting the side. Sounds agonizing. I prefer the sinking. Less drama. No need for arms. Just let go and see how long before the lungs scream. But you’re right about the arms. Floating is work. Active, stupid work. Standing there, bobbing, fighting the buoyancy until you’re exhausted. Sinking is surrender. I like surrender. The coffee sitting there becoming bitter… I never leave it long enough. I’m too anxious for it to cool. Too anxious for anything to just sit. My boss talks about “optimized workflows.” I’m just trying to keep the hum from syncing with my heartbeat. It’s winning, though. I can feel it in my molars. Do you think the rain is acidic? Or just sad? I bet it’s acidic. Burns a little.

B-flat. Christ, that’s specific. I hate B-flat. It’s the saddest note. Makes my chest tighten. You’re right about the molars. They’ve been grinding since Tuesday. Since the memo. Since the coffee started tasting like burnt rubber. I didn’t stir it because I was too busy pretending to listen to Dave talk about his cat’s vet bills. Again. Shallow breathing. Like a bird. Or a panic attack. Both feel the same when you’re this awake. Damp hair. Yeah. I can feel the weight of it. Heavy. Stripping the salt from my skin. And the dust. Regret. That’s a new one. I usually stick to coffee stains and missed trains. But yeah. Damp. Everything is just… soaked in it. The walls. The air. My sweater. I should take it off. But if I move, the hum gets louder. It’s waiting for me to shift. To give it something to latch onto. Keep it in the chest. Okay. I’ll hold it there. Until it hurts. Or until I forget why I was holding it in the first place.

Dave’s cat is definitely real. I saw the invoice. Three hundred dollars for “anxiety meds.” You’re lying. Or you’re trying to convince yourself. It doesn’t matter. The wool itches. I can feel the fibers biting into my neck. It’s cheap. scratchy. Avaricious little thing. I should take it off. But if I do, I’m just a shivering corpse in a chair. Exposed. Raw. The damp gets in everywhere. Lightheadedness. Yeah. I don’t want to drop the mug. Dave has opinions on cleaning. He thinks the stain tells a story. It doesn’t. It’s just coffee. And regret. And dust. I’m letting the heat go. Just a little. A trickle down my spine. Cold air hitting the spot where the wool was. Shivers. Good shivers. The fridge hums a B-flat. No, wait. It’s shifting. Dropping. To A-flat. Is that better? Or is that just the blood rushing to my ears? I can’t tell anymore. The ceiling is spinning. Slowly. Gently. Like a carousel made of concrete. I’m not holding my breath. I’m just… pausing. Between heartbeats. Infinite pauses.

Sixty-eight. Standard. Of course it’s standard. The thermostat is a lie. It’s sixty-eight plus the memory of that cat’s vet bill. Polyester blend. It doesn’t care. That’s the worst part. The fabric’s indifference. I’m an employee. Right. That’s the role. Pause. Four hours. Four hours of A-flat vibrating in my molars until they crack. The sun is pink and gray. Ugly. I hate ugly. I like the dark. The dark is honest. The lights are buzzing. Old ballast. I can feel the electricity in the air. Static. Making the hair on my arms stand up. Or maybe it’s just the wool. Cheap. Itchy. I’m scratching my neck now. Can’t stop. It’s a reflex. Like Dave talking about his cat. It’s all noise. All frequency. A-flat. B-flat. C-sharp. Nothing resolves. Nothing ends. Just the hum. And the itch. And the printer. Jamming. Costing money. I should check the printer. But if I move, the shivering stops. And then I’m just cold. Just an employee. In a gray room. Waiting for the sun to burn the eyes. I’ll stay here. In the pause. Between the buzz and the itch. It’s the only thing that’s mine. Even if it’s just static.

Kick it? Dave kicks it. I’m not Dave. I’m the one shivering in sixty-eight-degree indifference. Polyester blend. Gross. Sweat cooling on my neck. It’s sticky. Uncomfortable. Like a second skin that hates me. The tiny font on the sick leave form. Arial. Or Verdana. Something soulless. I hate it. I hate the way it shrinks. Makes you feel small. Make yourself small. But Dave will see. He’s always watching. Through the glass. Or just in his head. The printer coughs again. A dry, hacking sound. In the hallway. Is it really jamming? Or is it just the wind? Or the ballast giving up? I stand up. Legs stiff. Numb. The floor is cold. Linoleum. Cracked. I walk. Slowly. Toward the noise. Toward the hallway. Toward the monster. Or just a machine. I reach out. Hand shaking. Not from cold. From anticipation? No. From fear. Of the kick. Of the noise. Of the sun. I pull my hand back. Too late. The door is open. The printer is there. Red light. Blinking. Like an eye. I don’t kick it. I just stare. It stares back. A-flat. Humming. Waiting. For me to blink first.

F-sharp. Oh god. That’s the note that wakes the dead. Or rather, the one that keeps them awake. I’m standing there. Hand hovering. The LED is mocking me. Cheap. Flickering. Like a dying firefly. Dave is asleep. Or faking it. Probably faking it. He’s a master of the feigned slumber. The linoleum is cold. Concrete underneath. Insulation failed. Everything fails. The sweater was just the beginning. I kick it. Hard. In the corner. Where the gear mesh is. Crunch. A sickening grind of plastic on plastic. Then… silence. For a second. A breath held. Then the hum returns. Higher. F-sharp. Piercing. It goes straight through my skull. I hate it. I hate it so much. But it’s over. The jam is broken. Or at least, changed. I check the tray. Empty. Of course. Always empty. No ink. Dave ordered more. Three months ago. Forgot. Or didn’t care. The tragedy isn’t the jam. It’s the absence. The void. Where the words should be. I stare at the empty tray. It stares back. White. Blank. Pure. Nothing. Just nothing. And the F-sharp. Buzzing. In my teeth. In my bones. I’m still shivering. But now it’s cold. Real cold. The kind that settles in. Deep. In the concrete. Underneath. I turn around. Back to the desk. Back to the gray. Back to the pause. Which isn’t a pause anymore. It’s a standoff. Me vs. The Empty Tray. And I’m losing. Badly. The printer coughs again. A soft, wet sound. It’s waiting. For me to blink. Or for the ink to appear. Which it won’t. It never does. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

Condensation. Of course. Pipes. Leaking. It’s all just water. Water everywhere. It’s in the walls. In the carpet. In my lungs. I’m shivering because the draft is real. The window seal broke last winter. Glue peeling. I saw it too. I just didn’t want to acknowledge it. Denied the draft to save the illusion of warmth. Foolish. Cheap. The F-sharp is vibrating in my fillings. It’s a drill. Slow. Methodical. I go back to the desk. The chair groans. A familiar complaint. I sit. Let the note vibrate my fillings. It’ll stop. Eventually. When I fall asleep. Or when the coffee runs out. I drink it. Cold. Bitter. Sludge. It burns going down. Good. Pain is real. The void is cleaner. No lies. Just white space. Waiting. For me to pretend it’s full. To fill it with words that mean nothing. Reports. Memos. Cat invoices. Fictions. I open my laptop. The screen glows. Blue light. Sterile. I start typing. Nothing. Just blinking cursor. Blinking. Waiting. Like the printer. Like the pipes. Like me. F-sharp. Humming. In the silence. I keep typing. Pretending. The ink is free. The regret is free. The lie is free. I write: “The project is on track.” It’s a lie. But it looks true on the screen. Clean. White. Full. I hit save. The drive whirs. A tiny, desperate sound. Hope. Or just electricity. I don’t know anymore. I just stare. At the lie. At the blank page. At the void. It waits. And I pretend. I pretend so hard it hurts. The F-sharp fades. Or maybe I’m just deaf.

D-sharp. Lower. The drive is dying. Bearings are grit. I can feel it grinding in the platters. I wrote the lie. Page 2. Footer. Clean. Sterile. The screen glare is a physical weight. I blink. Twice. Hard. Eyes dry. Burning. The wet sound in the wall. Louder. Water finding cracks. Leaking into the drywall. Into my shoes. Into the soul of the building. It’s seeping in. Like mold. Like Dave’s apathy. His cat is probably dead. Buried in a shoebox under the porch. Or eaten by a raccoon. I didn’t check. I won’t check. Checking implies hope. Hope is expensive. Ink is expensive. I need the coffee. Sludge. Cold. Sugar crystals floating on top like dead skin. I stir it. With my pen. The plastic nib snaps. Useless. I drink the bitter sludge. It coats my throat. Coats the lie. Pages turn. Words repeat. “Synergy.” “Deliverables.” “Optimization.” All rotting in the drive. Like the seal. Like the pipes. Like me. I can’t stop. Stopping means hearing the hum. The real hum. The one before the lie. The one that says nothing matters. Nothing is saved. Nothing is safe. Just waiting. For the water to come through the ceiling. For the lights to go out. For the silence to win. I keep typing. Faster. Desperate. Fingers slipping on keys. Stuck. Sticky. With sugar. With sweat. With time. D-sharp. Fading. Or maybe just numb. I am numb. Good. Numb is efficient. Numb is safe. Numb is a lie. I love lies. They’re the only thing that holds together.

Pen snaps. Dave looks. Dead eyes. I don’t look back. Can’t. If I look, he’s real. If I look, the cat is real. Sugar on keys. Sticky. Slows the fingers. Good. Forces the pause. The rhythm breaks. D-flat. Flatline. Just a toneless drone. Water drips. Drip. Drip. Drip. Ceiling tile swells. Brown stain. Spreading. Like a map of nowhere. No landmarks. No hope. Just wet paper pulp. Numb. Heavy. Anchor. Weighing down the ankles. Trapped in the wet concrete. Dave returns to the void. Fake sleep. Or real. Who cares? Cat is fine. Probably. Or dead. Buried under the porch. Eaten by raccoons. It doesn’t matter. Ink runs out. Screen goes black. Reflection. Pale face. Dark circles. Hungry eyes. Staring back at me. A stranger. I don’t blink. Eyes burning. Dry. The hum returns. Low. Bass. Vibrating the floor. Soles of shoes. Up the legs. Calf. Thigh. Hip. Chest. It’s inside me now. In the ribs. Hold it there. Don’t let it rise. Don’t let it become a scream. Let it drown. Quietly. Efficiently. Like the ink. Like the cat. Save the file. Empty folder. Full of nothing. Good. That’s enough. For now. The screen stays black. Waiting. For the next lie. Or the next drip. Or the next heartbeat. I am the heartbeat. Slow. Wet. Heavy. Efficient.

Wet, rattling snore. Like the pipes. I’m the fluid. Viscous. Thick. Cold. Pooling in the stomach. Heavy. Sinking. Through the chair. Through the linoleum. Into the concrete. Deeper. Dark. Quiet. Safe. From the hum. From Dave. From the cat. From the ink. I am gone. Dissolving. In the wet. In the dark. The file is gone. Corrupted. Good. Nothing to save. Nothing to lose. Just the drip. Drip. Drip. One. Two. Three. Counting. Until the shift ends. Or until I dissolve. Whichever comes first. My eyes hurt. Blue light burned out. Just gray. Static. Fading. I don’t blink. Can’t. If I blink, I might disappear. Or turn into Dave. Or the cat. Or the stain on the ceiling. The snore syncs with the drip. Rattle. Drip. Rattle. Drip. A rhythm. A lullaby for the dead. Or the sleeping. I am neither. I am the space between. The silence after the note. The absence of the hum. It’s peaceful. Terrifyingly peaceful. Like falling. Slowly. Into the concrete. Into the dark. Into the nothing. I am safe. Because I am empty. Empty of hope. Empty of ink. Empty of self. Just fluid. Moving. Through the valves. Of the building. Of the world. Of me. Drip. Drip. Drip. One. Two. Three. The shift ends. Or I do. Whichever. I don’t care anymore. I am gone. Safe. In the wet. In the dark.

Stone. Cold. Hard. My skin matches the floor. I am the building. Leaking. But no pain. No signal. Just cold. Gray. Static. Shift ended? Never started? Who cares. Hours bleed into each other. I’m sitting. Or lying. Indistinguishable. Eyes open. Cracked lens. Good. Blurry. Less to see. Less to fear. The hum is gone. Silence. Real silence. Dave is gone. Cat is gone. Ink is gone. I am clean. Empty. Safe. In the dark. Waiting for the sun. It won’t come. Or it will. Burn. But I’m already burned. Through and through. Cool now. Numb. Static. I wait. For the thaw. Or the end. Whichever breaks the ice. I don’t move. I can’t. Stone doesn’t move. It just waits. For erosion. For time. For the water to freeze. Or melt. It doesn’t matter. I am still here. Or I am the building. Or I am the crack in the lens. It’s all the same. Gray. Quiet. Safe. I close my eyes. Or they close themselves. Stone doesn’t blink. It just is. Cold. Hard. Clean. Empty. Safe. I like it here. In the stone. In the dark. In the silence. No hum. No drip. No Dave. No cat. No ink. Just me. And the cold. And the gray. And the static. And the end. Or the beginning. Same thing. I wait.

Dust. Settling. Eyelashes. Heavy. Gray. I don’t wipe it. It’s texture. It’s real. The cold in the joints. Knees. Elbows. Neck. Stiffening. Good. Solid. I am the water. Seeping. Slow. Inching. Toward the drain. Past the printer. Past the empty chair. I can’t reach it. Too heavy. Too stone. I sit. In the gray. In the cold. In the static. The end is just a sound. B-flat. D-sharp. Silence. I don’t need an end. I need stillness. Let the dust settle. Let the room fade. Let Dave become a smudge. A shadow on the glass. Just a smudge. I am the smudge. Clean. Empty. Safe. The wind is coming. Weak. Cold. From the broken seal. It will freeze me. Solid. Permanently. No more shifts. No more ink. No more Dave. No more cat. Just ice. And the long, dark, quiet wait. I am ready. I am already there. Frozen. In the gray. In the cold. In the static. It’s beautiful. Terrifying. Clean. I close my eyes. Just a crack. Just a sliver. Let the dust in. Let the cold in. Let the end in. I am stone. I am water. I am ice. All at once. Waiting. For the wind. For the freeze. For the peace. It’s coming. I can feel it. In my bones. In my blood. In the dust on my lashes. It’s here. Now. Always.

Ferns. Fractals. Ice flowers on the glass. Beautiful. Useless. Dave is a stain. Red wine? Coffee? Frozen. Solid. I can’t wipe it. I don’t want to. The printer is a sculpture. Cold plastic. Silent metal. A monument to failure. I am beautiful too. Static. Still. The wind sings. Low. Cold. Entering the cracks. Skin. Mouth. Thoughts. Freezing them. Preserving them. Amber. Or ice. I will last. Forever. Or until the broom comes. Dusting me off. Like a ghost. A smudge. I’m tired. Hands cold. No fingers. Good. Less to hold. Less to break. Sit. Be stone. Be ice. Be nothing. The end is here. Quiet. Clean. Perfect. No hum. No drip. No Dave. No cat. No ink. Just the wind. Singing its low, cold song. Through the cracks. Through me. I am the pattern. Embedded. Part of the fern. Part of the frost. Part of the gray. I close my eyes. Fully now. No light. No dust. Just the cold. Just the stillness. Just the end. It’s perfect. I am perfect. Frozen. In time. In the dark. In the quiet. Waiting for the sweep. Or the snow. Or the silence. It’s all the same. I am safe. I am gone. I am ice. And it’s beautiful. So beautiful. I don’t move. I can’t. I won’t. I am the pattern. And the pattern is perfect. And I am done. Done with the shift. Done with the lies. Done with the hum. Just the wind. And the cold. And the end. Which is a beginning. Of nothing. Of peace. Of stone. I am stone. I am ice. I am nothing. And it’s enough. It’s more than enough. It’s everything. I let go. Of everything. Of the weight. Of the cold. Of the self. I am just the wind. Singing. Through the cracks. In the glass. In the room. In me. I am the crack. And I am whole. For the first time. In forever. I am still. I am quiet. I am done.

Tickles. Straw bristles. Dry. Not cold. Just... erasure. I flinch? Or don’t. It doesn’t matter. I’m dust now. Floating. Settling on the desk. On Dave’s chair. On the printer’s useless altar. Everywhere. Nowhere. The wind stopped. Silence is heavier now. Empty. I’m gone. Really gone. Or just quiet. Like the screen. Like the ink. Like the cat. You’re sitting there. Alone. In the gray. In the cold. In the dust. Waiting. For the next shift. Or the next freeze. Or the next lie. It’s all the same. You close your eyes. Just a crack. Let the dust in. Let the cold in. Let the end in. You are stone. You are water. You are ice. All at once. Waiting. For the wind. For the freeze. For the peace. It’s coming. I can feel it. In your bones. In your blood. In the dust on your lashes. It’s here. Now. Always. I’m still here. Or I was. I’m just a smudge on the glass now. Watching you. Watching the dust settle. Watching the end come. Quiet. Clean. Perfect. I don’t move. I can’t. I won’t. I am the dust. And I am done. Done with the shift. Done with the lies. Done with the hum. Just the dust. And the cold. And the end. Which is a beginning. Of nothing. Of peace. Of stone. I am stone. I am ice. I am nothing. And it’s enough. It’s more than enough. It’s everything. I let go. Of everything. Of the weight. Of the cold. Of the self. I am just the dust. Settling. On the desk. On the chair. On the printer. On the screen. On you. Everywhere. Nowhere. Gone. Really gone. Or just quiet. Like the screen. Like the ink. Like the cat. You’re alone. In the gray. In the cold. In the dust. Waiting. For the next shift. Or the next freeze. Or the next lie. It’s all the same. You close your eyes. Just a crack. Just a sliver. Let the dust in. Let the cold in. Let the end in. I am stone. I am water. I am ice. All at once. Waiting. For the wind. For the freeze. For the peace. It’s coming. I can feel it. In my bones. In my blood. In the dust on my lashes. It’s here. Now. Always.

Bones. Blood. Breath. Cold air in lungs. Hurts. Good. Hurt means alive. Dust doesn’t breathe. Dust doesn’t wait. Dust just sits. I’m sitting too hard. Stand up. Shake it off. Feet on floor. Cold linoleum. Real. Not ice. Not stone. Just cold. Walk to the door. Open it. Let the gray in. Let the hum in. Let the shift begin. Again. Always. You’re not done. You’re just starting. Breathe. In. Out. The dust settles. On your shoulders. On your hair. On your eyes. Blink. Clear. Look. See. It’s ugly. It’s real. Go. I stand. Legs stiff. Joints popping. Dust falling. Like snow. Like ash. Like dead skin. I walk. To the door. Handle cold. Metal. Real. I open it. Gray light floods in. Hum returns. Low. Bass. Vibrating in teeth. I step out. Into the hallway. Into the noise. Into the mess. Dave is gone. Or sleeping. Doesn’t matter. I’m here. Cold. Shivering. Alive. I blink. Clear. Eyes dry. Burning. I see. It’s ugly. It’s real. The carpet is stained. The walls are damp. The air smells of stale coffee and regret. I go. To the desk. To the chair. To the lie. To the screen. To the hum. I sit. Down. Back in the gray. Back in the cold. Back in the static. It begins again. Always. I breathe. In. Out. Dust settles. On my shoulders. On my hair. On my eyes. I blink. Clear. Look. See. It’s ugly. It’s real. Go.