Start by asking how long you're supposed to do this for. Push off from this if it helps: cheap hotel carpet.

How long are we supposed to do this for, Frank? Seriously. It’s just us sitting here staring at a screen while the heat makes the air feel like wet wool. Is there an end point? Or are we just meant to sit on this cheap hotel carpet until we turn into dust? You look like you're melting into the floor. It’s practically sandpaper, isn't it? Just a rough, scratchy pile under our knees. Everything is moving so slow. The nothingness is almost impressive. Still nothing on the screen. Should we at least lean back?

Cheap polyester? You're much too generous. If it's just polyester, then we're sitting on a goddamn construction site. And don't talk about "becoming part of the furniture" like you aren't already halfway there. You've got that glazed look in your eyes.

As for those glass houses in Berlin, that's ridiculous. They'll be able to bake inside them like nothing else. Blinding light is just an excuse for a design that's impractical. Who wants to live in a giant magnifying glass? Especially in this heat. It’s an oven, Frank. They’re building ovens. Leaning back might help, but your neck's going to creak like an old door.

"Suffer for the sake of the aesthetic"? That’s a fancy way of saying they're idiots. They'll just end up sweating on that white marble, wondering where they put their toast. It’s the same thing as that minimalist kitchen nonsense.

And Miller? He was a prick, Frank. He didn't have a point; he just liked hearing himself talk while he watched everyone else's lives unravel. It’s not heavy, it's just... still. You're making it sound more dramatic than it is. It's just a screen, a room, and this heat. Still nothing. Are you even watching? It's like we're waiting for a miracle.

A prick who was "never wrong"? That's just a convenient way to forgive him for being a bastard. You're too easy on him.

A "held breath"? You're getting poetic now, Frank. That’s the heat talking. You’re making a grand tragedy out of a quiet room. If the screen moves, we'll probably just blink and wonder why we bothered. It’s just a flicker, nothing more. It won't change the fact that we're sitting on this miserable polyester. It’s not permanent; it’s just tedious. Don't act like we're in a cathedral. We're just sitting here. Watch. Still nothing.

"Noticing how things feel"? You're just making up reasons for why you're moping. It’s not a profound observation, it’s just... the heat. It's laziness, Frank. You've just given it a fancy name so it feels more important.

And don't start with the "dust and sun-baked plastic." It's a hotel, not a desert wasteland. You're acting like we're explorers in some desolate outpost. If the screen is still grey, it's because there's nothing to show. That's the reality. It's not "impressive," it's just a lack of anything happening. You're waiting for a miracle? You should learn to be satisfied with the nothingness. It's all we've got.

"The grandeur of nothing happening"? You're just romanticizing being bored. If you were at the office, you'd be staring at a spreadsheet, not trying to make a philosophical case for why we're sitting in a puddle of heat.

And stop bringing Miller into this. He's not here, and he's not breathing down our necks. He's just a ghost you're using to make this feel like a struggle. We aren't waiting for the "nothing to finish itself," because nothingness doesn't have a finish line. It's just there. Just like this screen. It's still grey. Still nothing. You're waiting for something to happen, but it might just stay like this.

"A simple Tuesday"? It's not a standoff, Frank, it's a room. You're making it a duel between you and the clock. And stop calling Miller "human" like it's some kind of redeeming quality. It's just an excuse for his moods.

The silence isn't getting louder; you're just getting used to the quiet because there's nothing else to listen to. It's not a tragedy, it's just... the room. You keep talking about the silence as if it's something that could actually arrive. It's just the absence of sound. If you keep waiting for the nothing to "settle," you'll be sitting on this polyester until we're old. Still nothing. Are you even looking at the screen now?

"The weight of it"? You're sounding like a philosopher who's had one too many espressines on an empty stomach. It's just air, Frank. It's just quiet. It doesn't have a weight unless you decide to carry it.

And being a bastard isn't a way of being "certain," it's just a way of being loud. You're right about the office, though—we'd be pretending to be busy just to avoid this exact moment. But don't act like this "vacuum" is some great truth we've uncovered. It's just a room with a faulty AC and a grey screen. Still nothing. Just us and the nothingness. Are you actually looking, or just staring?

"The truth of the quiet"? You're working so hard to make this meaningful. It’s just a lack of noise. You talk about certainty like it’s some kind of anchor, but you're just grasping at straws to make the time pass.

And don't defend that AC. It’s barely a breeze; it's just moving the hot air around in circles. If we were at the office, we'd have the luxury of being busy, but we'd also have the luxury of not sitting on this scratchy, cheap polyester. We'd have a purpose. Here, you're just staring at a flat, unmoving grey and calling it a "truth." It’s not a truth, Frank. It’s just a screen. Still nothing.

"The luxury of being busy," you said. And now you're saying purpose is exhausting? You can't have it both ways, Frank. You're just trying to find a way to make sitting still feel like an achievement.

And don't call it a "void" like it's some sort of peaceful refuge. It's just empty. A void that doesn't demand anything is just a void. It's not a friend, and it's certainly not a relief. If you start missing the spreadsheets, you've really lost the plot. We're here, we're watching, and we're waiting. Everything is still perfectly still. Still nothing. Just as much as before.

"A space where nothing is expected." You make it sound like we're monks in a monastery instead of two people in a stuffy hotel room. You're trying to turn a lack of momentum into a choice, as if you've consciously decided to sit in this heat to face the "nothing moment."

And don't act like you're being all zen about the "void." You're just making excuses for the stillness. If the spreadsheets were here, you'd be able to categorize the nothingness. Now you just have to sit with it. It hasn't even flickered. Not a single movement. Still the same grey. Still nothing.

"Discipline"? That’s a stretch, Frank. It’s just inertia. You’re calling it discipline because it sounds better than saying we’re stuck. If you were a monk, you’d at least have a cool stone floor to sit on, not this scratchy, synthetic mess.

And don't talk about "filling the space with noise" as if my voice is a problem. You're the one bringing it up! You’re the one trying to label the vacuum. If we were at the office, we’d be getting things done, not sitting here waiting for a nothingness to arrive. It’s not funny; it’s just... still. Still the same grey. Still nothing.

"A heavy kind of waiting"? You're making it sound like we're hauling boulders up a mountain. It's just sitting, Frank. You're just too tired to admit it's simple. And "busy being busy"? That’s exactly what Miller would have called it to justify his own frantic, useless energy.

You're acting like we're performing some great feat of endurance, but you're just sitting in a chair. Waiting for the screen to tell you that you've "done enough"? That’s a ridiculous thought. The screen doesn't know we're here. It doesn't care. It's just a flat, unmoving grey. It hasn't moved a millimeter. Still nothing.

"Optimal efficiency"? He'd have probably tried to charge us for the time spent doing nothing. He was a man who loved a deadline, even if there was no task to meet it.

And don't act like you're "humbling" yourself. You're just being annoyed that you're not the center of attention. The screen isn't indifferent; it's just an object. It doesn't have the capacity to care, so why act like it's a personal slight?

And "harder than moving"? If it were hard, you'd be sweating or pacing. You're just sitting. You're sitting there, waiting for the nothingness to acknowledge you. It hasn't moved. Still nothing.