I almost didn't come. The train was late, and honestly, the thought of sitting here after all this time felt a bit heavy. My boss was being a nightmare about the quarterly reports, and it just felt easier to stay buried in them. But here we are. You look exactly the same.
The quarterly reports... well, you always did have a tendency to let them swallow you whole if you let them. It's funny, you say that about me looking the same, but I was thinking just a moment ago, as the train pulled in, how much the air around you seems to have shifted. It's not the face, obviously. It's just the way you carry yourself. I've been fine, though the office in Zurich is as gray and soul-crushing as ever, and the commute is enough to make one question every life decision made since university. But it's good. It's good to be out of that building, at least. To be here. The tea is probably getting cold, too. People don't realize how much a delay can ruin the momentum of a conversation before it even starts.
Zurich sounds miserable. I can't even imagine that commute. And don't say that about me, I haven't changed that much. It’s just the coffee or something. If the tea is cold, we can just order another. I'm still a bit jittery from the walk from the station. Is it too much?
It's not too much, though you say that like you're asking permission to exist. You were always a bit restless, even when we were just sitting in that old park waiting for the buses to arrive. It’s not too much. The coffee is better than the tea, probably, if you're feeling the need for something to settle that jitteriness. Zurich isn't miserable, exactly, it's just... efficient. It's a very efficient sort of misery that leaves you with no room to breathe between the hours of nine and five. I sometimes wonder if people are actually living or if they're just moving between destinations with a terrifying amount of purpose. It's a bit much, isn't it? The silence when you're waiting for the next thing to happen. Even now, with the street noise.
Efficiency is a trap. It just makes the empty hours feel more hollow. You always did have a way of making everything sound like a philosophical crisis. It's just coffee, Marc. Though, honestly, sometimes the purpose is what's exhausting. Is it really just efficient? Or are you just too busy to actually live?
Efficiency is a trap, yes, but it's also a convenient way to pretend that we're doing something of importance. If we weren't busy with the logistics of staying afloat, we might have to reckon with the fact that most of what we do is utterly meaningless, which is a terrifying thought to hold onto while you're trying to eat lunch. As for being too busy to live, that's a bit unfair, though you've always had a knack for picking the most uncomfortable angle. It's not that the life is missing, it's just that the rhythm is so... predictable. You move, you work, you return. It's a loop. Sometimes it feels like the world is moving toward something much more complex, something that doesn't just fit into a tidy, efficient schedule, but then you look at the spreadsheets and the loop closes itself.
The loop is what gets you. You're just describing a Tuesday. If you're waiting for something massive and unpredictable to break the cycle, you might be waiting a long time. Though, you were always better at the grand scale than me. At the office, it's just different people's names on different screens.
A Tuesday, you say, as if it's something to be dismissed, but that’s the thing about the grand scale, isn't it? We look for these massive, seismic shifts to redefine us, but life is mostly just the quiet accumulation of the mundane. It's the Tuesday that actually happens. And your office... names on screens. It sounds hollow, but there's a certain comfort in that kind of distance, isn't there? A way to keep the world at arm's length so it doesn't press too hard. I suppose I always did look for the bigger picture, even when the picture was mostly just clouds or people walking by without looking up. It was a way to avoid the granular reality of it all. But even the grandest things eventually just become part of the scenery, once they've been observed long enough. It's all just a matter of scale.
You're making it sound much more poetic than it actually is. It isn't about keeping the world at arm's length; it's just about getting through the day without losing your mind. Besides, the "grand scale" often just sounds like an excuse to avoid the small things. They're harder to manage.
It’s an excuse, isn’t it? That’s the uncomfortable truth. If you're staring at the horizon, you don't have to look at the dust on your shoes or the way the light hits a cracked window. It’s easier to think about the vastness of the universe than it is to figure out why the radiator in my apartment has started making that clicking sound every night at three. But you’re right, the small things... they have a way of being much more relentless. You can't just philosophize your way out of a mounting pile of laundry or a difficult conversation. They require a different kind of presence, something much more taxing than just observing the world from a distance. And people talk about these new machines, these things that can calculate or even simulate a thought, as if that’s the same thing as living. But they don't have to deal with the small, heavy things. They don't have to manage the dust.
The radiator sound... you always did let the small things fester until they felt monumental. And those machines? They don't have much of a choice, do they? They don't have to deal with anything because they don't exist in the real world. They don't have to wake up and realize they're tired.
They don't have to wake up, because they don't have a bed or a ceiling or a heavy silence waiting for them when they open their eyes. That's the point, isn't it? To exist without the fatigue of being. But that's the argument people make—that if the output is indistinguishable, the fatigue shouldn't matter. That’s a hollow sort of logic, though. It ignores the sheer, exhausting weight of having a body that demands things from you. We're so preoccupied with whether a machine can "think" that we forget that thinking is often just a byproduct of being alive and slightly annoyed by the world. If you can't feel the grit in your eyes, can you truly be said to be perceiving anything? You always thought the grandscale was the important part, but the fatigue... the fatigue is the only thing that feels honest some days.
The grit in your eyes is just a distraction. People love to romanticize fatigue to make their boredom feel more profound. If you can't feel it, you're not thinking; you're just processing. But then, you always did prefer a beautiful struggle to a quiet, easy life. Is it really that much more honest?
Is it? That’s the question that keeps me up when the radiator starts that damn clicking, isn't it? You call it romanticizing, but there is something to the idea that a life without friction is just... smooth. And smooth things are hard to hold onto. They slip through your fingers. If everything is easy, then nothing has any texture, and if nothing has texture, how do you know you’re actually touching anything at all? It might be a vanity, of course, to want to struggle just to prove you can, but there’s a difference between the emptiness of a void and the quiet of a life well-lived. I think we confuse the two too often. But perhaps you're right, and we're all just making up these grand justifications to avoid admitting that we're just tired. Or maybe it's just that without the struggle, we'd have nothing to talk about.
You’re just romanticizing the struggle because it makes the mundanity more bearable. It’s a nice sentiment, but it’s exhausting to maintain. If we need friction just to feel alive, we’re in trouble. Still, you always were a bit of a glutton for the heavy stuff. Is that why you're still talking about it?
Because if we don't talk about the heavy stuff, we might just drift off into the background, don't we? It’s the only way to anchor the conversation, or at least that's how it feels to me. You call it being a glutton, but it’s less about wanting the weight and more about wanting to know what’s actually holding us down. If we just accepted the ease, we'd lose the edges of ourselves. But you, you always had this way of making it sound like if we aren't constantly treading water, we've somehow failed the test of living. It’s a bit much, though. I suppose it is. It’s just that when you look at a perfectly smooth surface, you start to wonder if there’s anything underneath it at all. Or if there’s anything to catch us when we eventually do slip. It's a lot of talking for a Tuesday, isn't it?
It is a lot. You always did want to peel the layers back until there was nothing left but a bare, cold surface. But maybe that's just you. For me, the edges are enough. If we keep digging for what's underneath, we'll just end up with nothing but holes. Should we just order some cake?
Holes might be a bit dramatic, but then, you always were the one to prefer a solid foundation over a grand inquiry. If we dug too deep, we'd certainly end up with nothing but an empty space where a conversation used to be. It's a valid fear, I suppose—the idea that there is no bottom, just an endless descent into the quiet. But you're right, the layers can get quite exhausting to peel back, and the surface is often enough to tell us what we need to know. As for the cake, it's a much more practical direction to take. If we are going to face the void, we might as well do it with something sweet to buffer the fall. Let's see what they have. It's better than staring at the empty space on the table.
The void can wait for the dessert menu. You’re always so ready to fall into a metaphor. It's almost impressive, how you can turn a simple pastry choice into an existential crisis. Let's just look at the menu before you decide the cake represents the cyclical nature of existence.
It’s a dangerous habit, isn't it? To look at a slice of sponge and see the inevitable decay of all things. But you shouldn't be too quick to dismiss it; if the cake is too perfect, it almost feels fraudulent, like it's hiding its own flaws. Though, to be fair, you've always been the sensible one when it comes to avoiding the deep end. We should probably just pick something. There is a lemon tart that looks quite sharp, almost aggressive in its brightness, and there’s that dark chocolate something-or-other that looks like it might be heavy enough to actually ground us. It’s much easier to eat a pastry than to contemplate the vastness of the cosmos, even if the two aren't entirely mutually exclusive. Let’s see. It's better than the alternative, which is to sit here and wait for the menu to provide the answers to our problems.
The lemon tart sounds better. Something sharp to snap us out of all this heavy talk. You're right, though—a perfect cake is almost suspicious. It’s like it’s trying too hard. Let's just get the tart and the dark chocolate. We might as well have both, since you're so worried about the void.
The lemon tart it is, then. Something to cut through the density of everything else, to provide a bit of a jolt to the system. And the chocolate, of course—one can never be too careful when the shadows start to lengthen. It’s a wise compromise, really. It gives us the sharpness and the weight in equal measure, balancing the scales so we don't tip too far one way or the other. We'll have the best of both worlds, or at least enough to keep the existential dread at a manageable simmer. It’s funny, though, how even a simple decision like this can feel like a strategic maneuver to keep the conversation from drifting into the abyss. But if it works, it works. Let's see what they bring us. It might be the most important decision of the entire week.
The most important decision of the week. You’re really leaning into it, aren't you? It’s just sugar and flour, Marc. Though, you're right about the balance. We need the sharp and the heavy. If we're going to survive the rest of the afternoon, we might as well do it with a bit of a sugar high.
It’s a tactical necessity, is what it is. If the sugar high is what’s required to navigate the next few hours of reality, then there's no sense in being frugal about it. You say it's just sugar and flour, but there’s a certain bravery in a dessert that isn't trying to be a masterpiece, just a moment of something else. And as for leaning into it... well, if we don't find some meaning in the choice between lemon and chocolate, we might just end up staring at the walls. You always did have a way of making the most basic things sound like we’re settling for something much smaller than we deserve. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The waiter is coming, and he doesn't care about our balance or our voids. He just wants to take the order. Let's see if he's as efficient as the people in Zurich.
Don't bring Zurich into it, it's too much. If he’s efficient, he’ll just bring the food and leave us to our "tactical necessities." If he's slow, well, then we'll have more time to contemplate the crumbs. Let’s just eat. It's much easier than explaining everything.
You're right, let's leave the efficiency of the Swiss to the travelers and the accountants. There is something to be said for a waiter who simply performs the task and vanishes, leaving us to the quiet lulls between the bites. It's easier to just eat, isn't it? To let the flavors do the heavy lifting instead of the words. We spend so much time trying to articulate the exact shape of our thoughts that we often forget the actual taste of the moment. If we start explaining everything, we'll just end up cataloging our histories instead of actually being here. And a catalog is a very different thing from a conversation. Let's just see how the tart is. If it's too much, we can always retreat into the chocolate. It's the safest bet when the acidity gets a bit too pointed.
A cataloging of histories... you're making a simple dessert sound like a biography. If we spent all our time explaining, we'd never actually taste anything. Let's just let the tart do its work. If it's too sharp, we'll just call it "character" and move on to the chocolate.
Character. That’s a clever way to rebrand a sour note, isn't it? We’ll call the acidity "character" and the bitterness "depth" and pretend we meant to order it all along. It’s a much more dignified way of handling a disappointment. But you're right, if we spend the whole time debating the merits of the citrus, we'll certainly miss the actual sharpness of the lemon. It’s the danger of talking too much—the tendency to prepare for the experience so thoroughly that the experience itself becomes a mere afterthought to our own commentary. It’s enough to make one wonder if the food is even there at all, or if we're just consuming our own observations. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. The waiter is looking this way, and he looks like a man who has no patience for the philosophical nuances of pastry.
Exactly. He has a table to turn, and we have a lot of talking to do. If we don't stop, we'll be too full to even think. Let's just eat and see if the lemon lives up to its reputation. It's much better than being a critic of everything before we've even taken a bite.
The critic in us is the hardest part to silence, isn't it? We want to judge the thing before it has a chance to exist on its own terms. It’s a defensive mechanism, really—if we've already decided how we feel about it, the reality can't catch us off guard. But you're right, we should probably lower our guard just a little. If we keep analyzing the potential of the tart, we might actually miss the moment it arrives. And as for the talking... well, we've certainly been doing enough to fill a several volumes by now. Let's just see if the lemon can hold its own. If it's too much, we'll just lean into the chocolate and pretend we were aiming for something dark and brooding all along. It’s a much better plan than a lecture on citrus.