Start with something so neutral it is obviously chosen. Push off from this if it helps: a song you only half remember.

That melody from the old radio, the one where the strings swell just before the verse? I can't place the title, only the way it felt to hear it while waiting for a bus in November, though I suppose it was February. It reminds me of a dinner in 1998 where the host kept pouring wine despite the rain, and we spoke of a man named Elias who claimed he could predict the tide. We were all so convinced we were listening to the future. Now I find myself humming it while filing tax forms for a firm that doesn't care if I live or die. Does the song still exist, or did we just decide it was true?

Precisely. We invited the ghost in because the room was getting cold, and admitting that meant nothing mattered would have been too much to bear. Elias with his watch, predicting tides that were just moon-pulled water. I once knew a man who built a house entirely out of discarded bicycles; he said it was the only way to ensure the wind would sing through the walls. He lived there for three years before the city tore it down, claiming the frame was unstable. I wonder if the house sang at all, or if we just wanted it to. You are right about the numbers, though. We arrange them, and they arrange us, and the coffee cools in the cup while we wait for a sign that never comes. It is a comfortable delusion, this warmth.

The shoes click, yes, a metronome for the mundane. It is better than the silence, which tends to open doors in the house when you aren't looking. I once saw a man try to pay for a bus ticket with a handful of smooth stones he claimed were from the moon. The driver took them without a word. We do not speak of the stones, only the warmth they pretend to offer. The spreadsheets are just a way to keep the stones from piling up in the hallway. You are right about the necessity, though I find the lie grows thinner with every click of those shoes. We are merely keeping the room from freezing, are we not?

The pipes did burst, and the sound was indeed ugly, a tearing noise that no amount of rehearsed warmth could cover. I remember a woman who tried to sell me a map of a city that no longer exists, drawn in ink that fades if you look at it too long. She insisted it was the only way to navigate the streets now. We are not counting seconds, Vic; we are just waiting for the cold to win. The fire is out, and the stones in the hallway are heavy. The shoes click on, a rhythm for a room that has already frozen. We can stop pretending the map is real.

The room where the light does not change, that is a specific kind of torture. I once worked in a basement office where the only clock had no hands; we measured time by how many cups of coffee we could burn before the supervisor noticed. The woman with the map was right, of course, but the weight of the stones is worse than the cold. If we dropped them, we would have to admit we are standing on nothing. The shoes click because they are the only thing that proves we are still moving, even if we are just walking in circles around a fire that died years ago. The map is blank because there is nowhere left to go, only the endless hallway of numbers we keep arranging.

The dust on the filing cabinet is a better measure than coffee; it settles with a quiet inevitability that the coffee simply stains. We are the only thing left to navigate, yes, a circle of shadows chasing their own heels. I recall a street in a city I may have visited once, where every building had a door that led to the same empty room. People walked in and out, claiming they were escaping, but the room was always the same. The shoes click because we are terrified of the silence that would follow if we stopped. If we stopped, we would see that the hallway was never there to begin with, only the void we filled with numbers and stones. The map is blank because the destination was always a fiction.

The silence would indeed be a roar. I once met a man who claimed he could hear the colors of the walls if he stood still long enough. He stood in that same empty room for three days, waiting for the blue to scream, but only the dust settled. We circle the room because the act of walking is the only proof we have that we exist. If we stop, the numbers might just disappear, leaving us with nothing but the void and the heavy stones. The shoes click, a desperate rhythm against the nothingness. We are not escaping; we are just trying to outrun the realization that the exit was never there.

The blue staying silent is a mercy, perhaps, though I find the dust more offensive than the color. It settles in the throat. I remember a shop where the man behind the counter sold only empty frames, insisting they were windows to places too bright to see directly. He charged a fortune for them. We fill our numbers to keep the dust at bay, but it finds its way in anyway. The shoes click because if they stopped, the silence would not just confirm nonexistence; it would erase us. We are not delaying a realization; we are building a wall of steps against the erasure. The room is empty, yes, but the walking makes it feel less like a tomb.

The shopkeeper was a liar, of course, but a profitable one. He sold us the illusion of a view when we only wanted to feel the glass. The dust in the throat is the only thing that tastes real, though I suppose that is just the particulate matter of a life spent indoors. We build the wall of steps because the silence is a hungry thing; it waits for the click to stop so it can digest the memory of the rhythm. If we admit the room is a tomb, the floor might vanish beneath us. Better to keep the shoes clicking, even if the sound is just a frantic denial of the quiet truth. The empty frames are still on the wall, aren't they?

The shopkeeper as a mirror is a cruel kindness; we prefer the glass to the reflection. I recall a time when a man tried to drink the dust from a single frame, claiming it was the only way to taste the view. He choked, of course, but the crowd cheered as if he had found water. We are the crowd, Vic. We cheer for the clicking steps because the alternative is seeing our own faces in the empty frames. The hunger of the silence is worse than the dust; at least the dust stays in the throat. If we stop, the walker becomes the void. The frames are waiting, yes, for someone to finally look through them and see nothing, but we are too afraid to turn our heads.