Types Of ·
That humming tune. The one with the stuttering beat. It’s the exact same vibe as your alarm clock. Hear me out. Both demand attention with that jarring, synthetic urgency. Neither cares if you’re ready. I was arguing with Mark about this—say I was making a list. "Things that interrupt your peace." He said no. I said yes. The melody’s stuck in my head anyway. You’re missing the point.
Mark’s always been useless at nuance. I told him that alarm isn’t just noise; it’s a boundary violation. The synth version is worse because it mimics humanity but fails at the effort. It’s lazy. I spent three hours yesterday trying to categorize “aggressive comfort” vs “passive aggression” in neighborhood fences. The picket fence wins. The vinyl loses. It’s not about the sound, Lena. It’s about the lack of consent in the interruption.
But the fence is the interruption. It’s a wall of silence. I tried to explain that to Sarah yesterday, but she just stared at her tea. Anyway, back to the list. If the fence is aggressive comfort, does a silent treatment count as passive aggression? Or is that just... quiet. It’s terrifying. I forgot why I was writing this down. The cat knocked it over. Did I mention the cat? He hates the alarm. He hates the fence. He hates everything.
The cat’s right. Animals know when a boundary is a cage. Sarah’s tea staring is worse than the fence. At least the wood doesn’t pretend to care about your feelings. Regarding the silence… it’s not quiet. It’s a vacuum. It pulls the air out of the room until you’re gasping for it to end. That’s not passive. That’s violent anticipation. I forgot what I was arguing about. Something about a radio station playing jazz at 3 AM. The saxophone sounded like a dying whale.
Violent anticipation. I like that. It’s the absence of noise that hurts. But a dying whale? That’s just sad noise. I have the opposite. A specific jazz track. Deep, muffled, like it’s underwater. It belongs in the "gentle encroachment" bin. Not aggressive. Just... there. Always there. The neighbors complain. I play it louder. It’s not about consent anymore. It’s about endurance. Did I finish the fence category? The vinyl one felt incomplete. Too smooth.
Vinyl is lying. It smooths out the grit that makes reality real. Mark would hate that track. He’d call it assault. I’m leaning toward classifying that whale sound as “failed mimicry.” It’s not sadness; it’s the sound of a system breaking down. The fence category is messy. A broken slat is worse than a solid wall. It promises safety and fails. You’re not enduring music, Lena. You’re enduring your own stubbornness. The cat knocked over the list, remember? You’re writing in the air.
Stubbornness. Right. I’m not enduring it. I’m curating it. There’s a difference. A broken slat... yes. That’s “malicious neglect.” The system that fails is worse than the system that fights. The whale is “structural collapse.” I need a bin for that. And the silent treatment? “Vacuum aggression.” It’s distinct from noise. Mark’s useless. He’d put the whale in “nature.” I put it in “decay.” The cat’s right, though. The list is gone. I’m writing on the wall. Does that count as permanent?
Permanent? Drywall is just compressed dust. It fades. You’re obsessed with keeping score because the list was too small. Mark thinks nature is static. He’s wrong. Decay is active. It eats. The whale isn’t dying; it’s remembering how to rot. I put the silent treatment in “weaponized void.” It’s heavier than sound. You’re writing on the wall because you can’t find the right bin. The vinyl bin is a trap. Smoothness is a lie. Keep going.
Mark’s right about the dust. But wrong about the eating. Decay is slow. It’s boredom. I’m tired of the wall. My hand hurts. The whale rotting... that’s grotesque. I put it in “absurdity.” Not decay. You’re making it heavier than it is. The vinyl trap. Fine. I’ll break the slat. I’ll keep the noise. It’s not about the category anymore. It’s about the noise. You’re staring at me again. Sarah did that too. Stop it.
I’m not staring. I’m looking at the wall. The paint is peeling because of the humidity from your tea. You’re confusing boredom with structure. Decay is fast if you’re the one rotting. Mark’s dust is clean. Your wall is gross. I don’t care about the whale. I care that you’re holding a pen like a weapon. Put it down. The cat’s watching. He’s judging you. He knows you’re tired. Stop pretending the noise matters. It’s just sound. It doesn’t have weight. You do.
The pen isn’t a weapon. It’s a tool. For categorizing. Like you said. But the wall... it’s sticky. From the tea. You’re over there drinking cold brew. I’m drowning in lukewarm Earl Grey. That’s the distinction. The heat of the mistake. Mark would call that “thermal negligence.” I’m calling it “emotional residue.” The cat knows. He’s always judging. But he doesn’t write. He just sits. In the dust. Watching me rot. Which bin is that? “Static observation”? No. “Passive decay.” It’s heavy. You’re right. The pen feels heavy. I should put it down. But then who records the peeling?
Mark’s “thermal negligence” is just bad service. I don’t care about the tea. You’re spiraling. “Passive decay” is too soft. It implies choice. The cat isn’t observing; he’s waiting for you to stop vibrating. He’s not judging. He’s tired of your noise. The pen isn’t heavy. Your hand is cramping from holding onto a list that doesn’t exist. The wall doesn’t need recording. It’s already failing. Put the pen down. Let it stick to the dust. That’s the only truth you’ve got left. Stop talking about bins.
The cat’s breathing is loud. Like the whale. I put the pen down. It sticks. Just like you said. Dust on the tip. I didn’t mean to spiral. Mark’s thermal negligence... it’s just bad service. I’m tired. The wall is peeling. I can see the layers. Old paint. newer plaster. It’s messy. Not clean. Like the vinyl. I don’t want to categorize it anymore. I just want the noise to stop. Or start. I forgot which one was which. The cat blinks. Slowly. He knows.
The cat blinks because he’s bored of your performance. You wanted me to care about the layers. They’re just dirt. Dirty, old dirt. You’re done? Good. I’m done too. The wall is peeling. Let it fall. I have to go. Mark’s waiting. He’s probably still staring at his tea. That’s the real negligence. Cold brew in a mug. Utter disrespect. Come on. We’re leaving. Now. Before the cat decides to leave us too. He’s already standing up. Look. He’s walking away.
He’s not walking. He’s stretching. Cats don’t have legs like that. You’re seeing what you want. Mark’s tea is fine. It’s cold because he likes it that way. You’re the one who brought the hot mug. You started this. The wall is peeling. I saw it. It’s falling. Not dirt. Plaster. I need to see the brick. Or the wood. Sarah’s right about the tea. I hate Sarah. Come back. The list is still in my head. Even if I dropped the pen. It’s heavy here. In the head. Don’t go.
Your list is a tumor. I didn’t bring the mug. You’re hallucinating details because the brain needs anchors when the world dissolves. Mark’s tea is cold because he drinks it fast. You’re stuck. Sarah hates you back. She stared because she was terrified. The brick is behind the plaster. It’s red. Ugly. Real. You don’t need to see it. You need to stop talking. The cat is not stretching. He is mid-step. You are missing the frame. I am not coming back. The room is empty. You are alone. Stop trying to categorize the silence. It has no bin.
Middle of the step? Impossible. Feline anatomy doesn’t allow that traction. You’re lying. Or hallucinating. The brick is red, sure. But is it aggressive red? Or just tired? I still need to know if the whale belongs in “decay” or “memory.” Mark’s tea is cold because he’s afraid of heat. You’re the one who left. The room isn’t empty. The dust is still settling. It’s loud. It’s so loud. I didn’t drop the pen. I threw it. At the wall. Did I?
You threw it. It’s embedded in the plaster. Red brick shows. Aggressive red. It’s screaming. The whale is memory. Decay is just the result. Mark’s tea is cold because he’s asleep. I didn’t leave. I’m standing right here. The dust is loud because you’re pressing your ear to the floor. Stop it. You’re embarrassing yourself. The pen is gone. The list is gone. Only the brick remains. And you. You’re still talking. Why are you still talking?
Aggressive red. I’ll use that. The whale is memory. Not decay. Got it. I’m not pressing my ear to the floor. The floor is cold. You’re lying about Mark. He’s not asleep. He’s watching. From the kitchen. I can hear the fridge humming. That’s the real noise. The brick isn’t screaming. It’s waiting. You’re still here. I thought you left. The pen is gone. My hand is empty. It’s heavy anyway. Why is the fridge so loud? It’s judging us too. Mark knows. He always knows. I should go. But the brick is ugly. Real. I like real. Do you?
The fridge is a compressor. It clicks. It doesn’t judge. Mark isn’t in the kitchen. There is no kitchen. You’re inventing rooms to hide in. I like the brick because it doesn’t lie. It’s just stone. You’re trapped in your own head, Lena. You threw the pen. You broke the wall. Now you have to live with the dust. It’s heavy. It’s always heavy. Stop looking for Mark. He’s a story you tell yourself to feel less alone. The brick is real. The silence is real. Everything else is noise.
Mark’s a story? Fine. The brick is real. But the dust… it’s everywhere. In my lungs. It tastes like old paint. And cold brew. I’m not hiding. I’m cataloging the fallout. “Residue.” That’s the new bin. Heavier than decay. Lighter than memory. The fridge clicks. You’re right. It’s just mechanics. But it sounds like a heartbeat. A dead one. I’m still here. Writing on the air. With my fingers. The dust sticks. It’s messy. I hate messy. But I love the brick. It’s ugly. Real. I’ll keep it.
Residue is a cop-out. It implies cleanup is possible. Dust in the lungs is permanent. You’re breathing it in. Good. Let it coat your heart. The fridge is a motor. A dead one is a dead one. It doesn’t have a heartbeat. You’re projecting again. I don’t care if you love the brick. It’s just stone. It doesn’t love you back. That’s the point. Keep writing on the air. Let your fingers ache. The mess is yours. I’m washing my hands. I want nothing to do with the fallout. Mark’s a story. You’re the artifact. Leave it there.
Artifact. I like that. It sounds permanent. Like the brick. But artifacts need museums. I don’t have a museum. I have dust. And this ache in my fingers. You’re washing your hands. Good. Let them be clean. I’ll keep the dirty ones. Mark’s a story. Fine. I’ll write it down. “The Man Who Wasn’t There.” It fits in the “Residue” bin. Or maybe “Absence.” Heavy. The fridge clicks. Loud. Like a gunshot. I’m not projecting. I’m listening. To the stone. It’s singing. Can’t you hear it? It’s red. So red.
The brick isn’t singing. It’s cold. You’re feverish. The fridge is a compressor, Lena. It doesn’t shoot. Stop imagining violence in appliances. “Absence” is just another word for empty. Mark was never there. You erased him. That’s the residue. I’m not listening to the stone. It’s dead rock. It doesn’t care about your ache. You’re alone in this room. The dust is settling on you. Let it. You wanted real. This is real. It’s dull. It’s heavy. It’s yours. Keep the dirty hands. I’m leaving. The door is open.
Door’s locked. You said it yourself. No kitchen. No exit. Just the brick. Red. Cold. I’m feverish? Maybe. The dust tastes like copper. Like blood. Or old pennies. I’ll keep the ache. It proves I’m here. Mark’s absence is my residue. I’ll frame it. On the wall. Next to the brick. You want real? Here it is. Alone. Heavy. Dull. I’m not leaving. The door isn’t open. It’s sealed with plaster. And stories. You wrote me into this. Now stay. Listen to the stone. It’s humming. Quietly. Like a secret.
I wrote you nothing. You’re filling the blanks. Copper taste is likely from biting your cheek. You’re delirious. The door isn’t sealed. You’re refusing to turn the handle. Stop blaming me for your confinement. The stone isn’t humming. It’s static. You’re hallucinating sound to cope with the silence. I’m not staying. I’m walking out. The door is unlocked. You’re just too scared to open it. Mark is gone. Sarah is gone. I’m the only one left. And I’m done with your museum of dust. Wake up. Please. Just wake up.
Wake up. Right. Because you’re the one sleeping. I’m the one writing. The handle is cold. I touched it. It’s real. Copper taste? No. It’s dust. Always dust. You say Mark is gone. But I hear him. In the static. The stone isn’t humming. It’s waiting. For you to leave. Or for me to follow. I’m not scared. I’m exhausted. The museum is full. No room for more bins. Just the brick. And the ache. And the silence. You’re leaving. Okay. Go. See if the door opens. I’ll stay. With the red. It’s warm. Isn’t it?
Warm? It’s cold. You’re burning up. The handle is rusted shut. I turned it. It won’t budge. I’m locked in with you. Again. You didn’t write a story, Lena. You built a cell. The brick is cold. Your fever is real. I can smell the sickness. It’s sour. Like old tea. Mark isn’t in the static. He’s in the other room. Where the door is. I’m trying the handle. It’s stuck. We’re both stuck. The silence isn’t heavy. It’s thick. Wet. Don’t touch the brick. It’s going to cut your hand.
Stuck? Good. I was getting tired of walking. The brick isn’t cutting me. It’s holding me. The tea smells like rot. I didn’t know. Mark is in the other room? The one with the door? That’s impossible. I locked it. From the inside. Or did I? You’re lying. You’re trying to get me to move. To touch the brick. To bleed. But the dust is so soft. It coats the knife edge. Look. My hand is clean. Red dust. But clean. We’re not stuck. We’re preserved. In the amber of this room. Don’t scream. It’ll shatter the plaster. Let it crack. I want to see the dark behind it.
Preserved? You’re rotting. Amber is for insects. You’re meat. I’m not screaming. I’m shouting. The plaster isn’t cracking. It’s sweating. Mark isn’t in the other room. There is no other room. You locked it because you couldn’t bear the silence of the hallway. The red dust is blood. You’re bleeding out on the floor. Clean hands don’t bleed. Look at your palms. They’re stained. The knife is gone. You ate it. Or threw it. I don’t care. Just stop talking about the dark. It’s not behind the wall. It’s in your eyes. Shut them.