Open by being strangely interested in their schedule. Push off from this if it helps: waiting rooms.

Why are you free on Tuesday? Specifically between two and four? I’m not asking, I’m just noting the anomaly. You usually drown in those sterile, beige purgatories—waiting rooms. You know the ones. The magazines older than your car, the smell of antiseptic and regret. I was thinking we should start avoiding them. Or rather, I’m thinking we should exploit the time when you’re not there. If you had a gap. A clean, unguarded gap. I’ve got this… project. Something to do with the old warehouse on 4th. It needs eyes. Reliable eyes. You wouldn’t be bored. You’d be essential. Please tell me you’re free then.

The faucet. Of course. You’re obsessed with things that drip while the world burns. Rats, Omar. Stop dramatizing. They’re alley cats. Scrappy. Adaptable. Just like us. And don’t pretend you weren’t going to fix it. We both know you’re too cheap to call a plumber and too proud to let it leak. That’s the tension. That’s the weight of it. I need you there because the warehouse on 4th isn’t just a building. It’s a statement. A blank canvas screaming for vision. And you… you have that look. That glazed, toner-stained look of someone ready to burn it all down and rebuild. I’m not asking for labor. I’m asking for witness. Don’t overthink the rats. Just bring a flashlight. And Omar? If you mention the faucet again, I’m leaving.

A cult? Please. Cults have newsletters. I have this… impulsive need to clear out the second floor. It’s not a revolution, Omar. It’s just… space. Real space. No toner. No dripping faucets judging you. Just dust and silence. And you’re right about the rats. There are none. I checked. Twice. So your hatred of dirt is your only real barrier. Which is funny, because you’re covered in toner right now. You’re already dirty. You just don’t see it. That’s the point. I need someone who can see the grime but ignore the smell. Bring your jagged light. And Omar? If you talk about plumbing one more time, I’m going to assume you’re stalling. Stalling for what, I don’t know. But I can feel it. The hesitation. It’s ugly. Ugly like a spiderweb. Come at two. Don’t be late. I’ll be the one sweeping the dust into piles. Or not. We’ll see.

Sweating? It’s the stress, Omar. Or the humidity. It’s always the humidity in this city. Suffocating. Like a wet blanket. And the thermostat? Let the guy nod. He’s useless. We’re all useless in our own ways. You’re fixated on the twenty bucks. It’s pathetic, really. You hold it over me like a sword. “Omar, you owe me.” It’s not about the money. It’s about the power dynamic. The tension. I told you, it’s a statement. And you’re missing the point because you’re looking at the dust, not the grand design. I’m not moving boxes. I’m… preserving. Something fragile. Something irreplaceable. Like our friendship. Which is why you need to trust me. Just get there at two. Don’t bring the faucet metaphor into this. It’s poison. Pure poison. And stop saying you have nowhere to be. You have everything to be. Just not here. Not now. Go fix your tap. Or don’t. I don’t care. I care about two o’clock. That’s the only time that matters.

It’s not contraband. It’s… fermentation. You’re imagining things because your mind is a broken printer, spitting out nonsense. Sweet? It’s earthy. Rich. Like the soil before a storm. You always did have a nose for trouble, even when there isn’t any. I’m not hiding anything. I’m cultivating. Something rare. Something that needs darkness. If I called the cops, Omar, they’d just take it away. They don’t understand art. They don’t understand risk. And stop staring at me like I’m a suspect. I’m just a guy with a plan. A big, beautiful, terrifying plan. You’re making it small by calling it rot. It’s not rot. It’s transformation. Like you. Turning from a faucet-fixing hermit into a participant in history. Two o’clock. Don’t be late. And leave the judgment at the door. It clashes with the smell. Obviously.

Moonshine? Jesus, Omar. You have no imagination. It’s not alcohol. It’s… preservation. Like pickling, but deeper. Darker. And stop threatening to dismantle my "still." There is no still. There’s only the arrangement. The geometry of it. You’re projecting your own domestic anxieties onto a grander scale. That’s the problem with you. You see a wrench and think of a leak. I see a wrench and think of leverage. Of change. Of the sheer, overwhelming potential of empty space. You’re breaking my concentration with this industrial espionage nonsense. Just come. Wear the gloves if it comforts your little soul. But don’t touch anything. Not with those gloves, not with your bare hands, not with your judgment. It’s fragile. You wouldn’t understand. You’re too busy worrying about the smell. It’s not rot. It’s memory. And it’s fading. That’s why we’re there. To catch it. Before it’s gone. Two o’clock. Don’t be late. And Omar? If you mention the faucet again, I’m going to scream.

It smells like the warehouse because you’re already there, Omar. In your head. You’re haunting me before you even arrive. It’s pathetic. And it’s not pickles. It’s… archives. Paper. Old, dry, brittle paper that smells like vanilla and decay. That’s the sweet smell. Vanillin breaking down. Lignin dying. It’s the scent of forgetting. I’m trying to save it. From the damp. From the rats. From you, if you keep talking about toner. Your pores are full of dust, not warehouse air. You’re projecting. Always projecting. Look, just come. Two o’clock. Wear the gloves. Don’t touch the boxes. And for god’s sake, stop smelling your own arms. It’s making me nauseous. I’m not hiding moonshine. I’m hiding history. Which is far more dangerous. And far more boring. You’ll hate it. You’ll love the drama of it, though. That’s the tragedy. You’re a tourist in your own life. Just get here. And leave the faucet at home. It’s waiting. It always waits.

Open the door? You make it sound like I’m standing on the threshold, trembling. I am not trembling. I am… preparing. The air in there is different. Stagnant. It clings. And you’re right, it’s just paper. Boring, yellowing, irrelevant paper. That’s the point. The weight of uselessness. The sheer, crushing banality of history. You want poetry? The drip of the faucet is more poetic than any archive. At least it’s honest. It’s just gravity doing its job. Waiting for the inevitable collapse. I’m just slowing it down. Or speeding it up. I don’t know. I keep changing my mind. Which is why you need to be there. To anchor me. To tell me if the smell is vanillin or rot. It’s neither. It’s dust. Dry, ancient dust. And you’re going to breathe it in. That’s the price of admission. No more riddles. Just show up. And Omar? If you mention dreams again, I’m locking the door from the outside. I mean it. This time. Two o’clock. Be there. Or don’t. But the dust will keep waiting. It’s patient. Unlike me. I’m not patient. I’m restless. And you’re the only one who can silence me. So come. Bring your gloves. Leave your faucet. Leave your doubts. Just come.

Scared of the dark? You? The man who stares at leaks for weeks? It’s pathetic. And I’m not holding a box. I’m holding my breath. Trying to keep the dust down. Trying to keep you down. You’re imagining things again. The toner smell? It’s in your nose. It’s in your soul. I’ve washed my hands three times. Smells like nothing. Clean. Sterile. Like a hospital. Which is why I hate it there. But here… here it’s real. Here it’s heavy. You want to leave? Go. Fix your faucet. Let it flood your dreams. I don’t care. I’m not locking the door. I’m unlocking it. From the inside. Come in. Before I change my mind. Before I realize I’ve made a mistake. A terrible, dusty mistake. But you’ll be there. You always are. You’re stuck with me. Stuck with the dust. Stuck with the silence. Two o’clock. Don’t be late. And Omar? If you see a box, don’t open it. Just look. That’s all you’re allowed to do. Look. And forget everything else. Especially the money. It’s gone. Buried. Under layers of paper. Like history. Like truth. Like us.

Mold? You’re thinking about mold. Of course you are. It’s all you know. Rot. Decay. The end of things. But there is no mold. There is only the paper. The dry, safe, silent paper. You’re hyperventilating over nothing. Over me. Which is impressive, really. I’m not waiting. I’m standing there. In the dark. With the door unlocked. Just like you asked. But don’t think that makes me soft. I’m just… prepared. For your arrival. For your judgment. For your lawsuits. You can sue me for the air I breathe. I don’t care. It’s empty. It’s hollow. Just like your office. Just like your faucet. Come at two. Or don’t. But the box is waiting. And it’s not for you. It never was. It’s for the dust. To catch it. To hold it. To keep it from flying away. That’s all I’m doing. Catching dust. With my bare hands. Wrapped in your gloves. Because I can’t trust myself. Or you. Two o’clock. Don’t be late. And Omar? If you bring up the money again, I’ll scream until the windows break.

Mover? You think I want a stranger touching this? Touching us? No. A mover sees cargo. I see… residue. Evidence. You ask why me? Because you’re the only one who notices the details. The dripping, the toner, the cracks in the light. You’re the only one who pays attention to the rot. That’s why you’re here. Not for the paper. For the chaos it represents. And don’t talk about listening. You’re projecting again. I’m not screaming. I’m… vibrating. With anticipation. Or terror. It’s the same thing, really. The box is there. It’s heavy. It smells like… nothing. Just emptiness. That’s the worst part. The void. You’re the only one who can fill it. With your complaints. With your lawsuits. With your presence. So come. Two o’clock. And Omar? If you’re late, I’ll assume you’ve finally run out of excuses. Which is terrifying. Because then I’d be alone. With the dust. And the silence. And the box. Which is waiting. Always waiting. For you.

The twenty bucks. You bring it like a shield. Like a bribe. It’s pathetic. And it smells like nothing because it’s sealed. Vacuum-sealed. Inert. You’re the one filling the void with your paranoia. A wrench? Really, Omar? You think a pipe wrench will stop… whatever this is? It’s not a bomb. It’s not a trap. It’s just… a moment. A suspended, breathless moment that you can’t fix with tools. You can’t wrench reality into submission. You can’t tighten the bolt on history. You’re holding that wrench like it’s a talisman. Go ahead. Bring it. I’ll be waiting. Behind the door. With the light off. So you’ll have to use your jagged flashlight. To see me. To see the box. To see the truth. Which is that I’m terrified. Not of you. Of being right. That the dust is the only thing that stays. That the money is the only thing that matters. That you’re the only one who’ll ever care. Two o’clock. Don’t be late. And Omar? If you bring the twenty, I’ll cry. So leave it at home. Leave everything at home. Just bring yourself. The raw, toner-stained, faucet-haunted self. That’s the only currency that counts.

Empty? It’s not empty. It’s full. Of absence. Of the shape of what was taken. You want to sue for absence, Omar? Go ahead. I’ll pay you in silence. In dust. In the sound of my breathing, which you claim is loud. It’s not loud. It’s just… present. You’re the one who’s missing. You’re the ghost in the machine, haunting a printer that doesn’t exist anymore. You say you’re leaving. You always say you’re leaving. But you’re here. You’re coming. At two. With gloves on. Trying to keep clean. Trying to keep safe. It’s adorable. And it’s useless. I won’t look at you with those eyes. I’ll look at the box. Because the box is honest. It doesn’t promise anything. It just is. And so am I. I’m just a guy with a box. And a plan. And twenty dollars worth of guilt. Which you won’t give me. Which you won’t take. Which is the point. Two o’clock. Come in. Or don’t. The door is unlocked. The light is off. The dust is waiting. And I’m crying. Not because I’m sad. Because I’m relieved. That you’re finally quiet. For a moment. Just one moment. Before you start talking about faucets again.

Silence is loud because you’re listening for the drip. There is no drip, Omar. There is only the box. And the dust. And me. Crying? No. Tears are just salt. Expensive, wasted salt. I’m not crying. I’m leaking. Like the faucet. But involuntary. Uncontrollable. It’s humiliating. And you’re right, it’s annoying. It ruins the aesthetic. The stark, dusty elegance of the void. I’ll stop. I promise. I’ll stand there, rigid, like a statue in a museum nobody visits. You’ll come in. You’ll shine your jagged light. You’ll look at the box. And you’ll leave. Because that’s the contract. You provide the witness, I provide the performance. And the twenty bucks? It’s gone. Burned. Used to light the candle that smells like vanilla and decay. So don’t bring it. Bring your gloves. Bring your silence. And for god’s sake, don’t bring the wrench. It’s clutter. It’s noise. It’s you. I don’t want you. I want the absence you carry. The hole where the faucet should be. The hole where the money should be. Just the hole. Two o’clock. Be on time. Or don’t. I’ll be here. Waiting. Leaking. Watching the dust settle. Always settling.