Fog's got back, thick as wet wool. Been here since I woke up, swallowing the whole ridge. You're standing there breathing it like it's a fresh batch. Remember that ferry trip? Same shit. You said the silence was "humbling." It's just damp, Marc. Stop romanticizing the grey. I'm trying to map a route through the attic without tripping over your "projects." They're gathering dust, not wisdom. Just say you missed the sun, but don't make it sound like a spiritual awakening.
It wasn't romanticizing. It was the only quiet we got. You want to map a route through the attic? Fine, go. Just don't expect me to move the old crates until the fog lifts. I'm not hiding anything. Just tired of watching you pace. You're making that noise again, dragging your foot. Stop it.
The noise? You're the one muttering about crates like they're witnesses. I'm not hiding anything either. Just clearing space. You call it quiet, I call it suffocating. That fog isn't hiding you from me, Marc. It's just making the air heavy. And I'm not dragging my foot, it's the floorboards. They're rotten. Since when do you care about the sound? You usually pretend not to hear anything until you're ready to snap. So just admit you're bored, or move a crate. Stop telling me what to do with my pacing.
They're not rotten, they're just old. Don't blame the floor. And I'm not bored, I'm waiting. The boss isn't picking up. You want me to move a crate? Fine. But don't act like I'm the only one stuck here. You're just as trapped as me. Maybe worse, since you're talking to the air.
Talking to the air? Please. I'm talking to you, Marc. The boss is irrelevant. They're not picking up because the line is dead, same as everything else. You think staring at that crate makes you less trapped? It doesn't. At least I'm moving. You're just waiting to be rescued like a pet. "Just old" floorboards? They smell like wet rot. Don't lie to yourself. And I'm not talking to the air, I'm telling you to stop pretending this is a limbo waiting room. It's a room. We're in it.
It's not a waiting room, it's a job site. You're the one treating it like a stage. And I'm not a pet, I'm just keeping my head down until the call comes. You want to talk to the air? Fine. But stop blaming the floor for your pacing. The rot doesn't care about your route. It just sits there. Like the crates. Like me.
A job site? Don't make me laugh. You're just hiding in the dust. The rot doesn't care? Exactly. It just eats through the wood while you stare at the ceiling waiting for a phone that isn't ringing. You're not "keeping your head down," Marc, you're rotting. Same as the floor. I'm moving because I have to, not because I'm on a stage. Stop making yourself sound like a statue. That crate isn't a monument to your patience, it's just wood waiting to be dragged. Get up. Move it. Or admit you're too scared to break the silence.
Scared? You're the one filling the air with noise so you don't hear yourself thinking. Move it? Fine. The crate goes. But don't think you've broken the silence. You're just making it louder. I'm not a statue. I'm just waiting for something that never comes. You're right about the rot. It's everywhere.
Finally, the crate moves. But you're still rambling about silence. It's not louder, Marc, it's just real. You want to wait for something that never comes? Go ahead, be a statue in the dust. I'm busy. You're just complaining that the rot got under your skin. It's not "everywhere," it's just the floor and the air and your bad attitude. Stop looking at the door like it's going to open. Just lift the damn thing.
It's not looking. I'm checking the hinges. They're rusted solid. You call it a bad attitude? I call it noticing things rot while you pace. You think moving a crate solves the damp? It just makes the dust cloud bigger. Stop pretending you're busy. You're just afraid of the quiet again.
Hinges? You're still obsessing over rust while the whole roof could cave in. I'm not afraid of quiet, I'm afraid of this quiet. The kind where you stop hearing yourself. Moving the crate isn't a solution, it's a distraction from the fact that nothing's coming. And that dust cloud? It's just proof you were moving something. Better than staring at rust. Stop pretending you're a detective. You're just a guy in a damp room waiting for a call that isn't coming. Get up and sweep it.
Don't tell me to sweep. I'm not your maid. You want proof? Look at your own hands. Covered in it. You're the one making the cloud. And it's not a call that isn't coming, it's the lack of one. You keep saying "this quiet" like it's a separate thing. It's just us. You can't outrun it by sweeping.
My hands are dirty because I'm actually working, unlike you counting hinges. It's not a separate thing, it's the fact that you won't move a finger. You're the one making the silence heavy. I can't outrun it? I'm not trying to outrun it, I'm trying to clear a path. You're just sitting in the dust cloud you helped make. Stop acting like the room is a personal vendetta. Sweep your own share of the dust, Marc. Or keep rotting in place. I don't care.
I'm not sitting. I'm leaning. And it's not a vendetta, it's physics. You can't clear a path if you keep tripping over your own shadow. If I sweep, you'll just find another reason to complain. Just leave the dust. It's better than moving the crates again. You're making it worse.
Leaning? You're a statue with a pulse. Physics? You're hiding behind words while the dust settles on your shoulders. Moving the crates isn't "making it worse," it's the only thing keeping me from losing my mind. You think I care if I trip? I'd rather trip than sit here listening to you debate the properties of dust. Leave the dust? Fine. Let it choke us both. But don't act like you're some passive observer. You're just too tired to fight the air.
Tired? I'm just done. You want to choke? Fine. But don't drag me into your panic. The dust isn't air, it's just old wood. You're the one fighting it. I'm just standing here. Stop trying to make me move.
Done? You're never "done," you're just paused. You're not standing, you're waiting. The dust is old wood? It's the past rotting in real time. You want me to stop fighting it? Fine. Let it settle. See how long you last without moving. I'm not dragging you into panic, I'm dragging you into doing something. But if you want to be a pile of sawdust with a heartbeat, go ahead. I'll be the one breathing the clean air when you finally cough.
Clean air? There isn't any. You're just lying to yourself. Stop pretending you're the hero of this story. You're just as stuck as me, just louder. If I'm sawdust, at least I'm not shaking. Keep breathing your "clean" air then. See if it saves you when the roof comes down.
Shaking? Please. I'm just vibrating with energy you refuse to have. Sawdust doesn't shake, it sits. And I'm not the hero, I'm the one cleaning up your mess. If the roof comes down, I'll be the one walking out of the rubble, not the pile of dust you're turning into. Don't act like my breathing is a lie just because you can't hear yourself think. The air isn't clean, but it's moving. Unlike you.
Moving? You're just flailing. Walking out of rubble? There's no exit, Cass. Just more floor. And I'm not a pile of dust, I'm the only one thinking. You're just burning energy to feel something. Sit down. The shaking will stop eventually.
Flailing? I'm clearing space. You're just wallowing in "thinking" while the room gets tighter. There's no exit? Then we build one. Don't tell me to sit down. The shaking won't stop because I'm not nervous, I'm alive. You're the one acting like a corpse waiting for a funeral. Burning energy? Better than freezing to death in a pile of sawdust. Stop pretending you have all the answers. You just have a lot of rust.
Building an exit? With what? The crates? You're delirious. The walls aren't getting tighter, you're just shrinking. Alive? You're just loud. I'm not frozen. I'm conserving. You burn everything and end up with nothing. Maybe the rust is the only thing holding this roof up. You tear it down, we're done.
Delirious? I'm planning. You're just hoarding rust. "Conserving"? You're rotting in place. The walls aren't shrinking, you're just getting smaller. I'm not tearing down the roof, I'm clearing the floor. Without me, we're just two people staring at dust. You want to be the rust holding things up? Fine. Be the rust. I'll be the one digging out the other side when it finally gives way. Don't pretend you're the anchor. You're the weight.
Weight? I'm the anchor. You're just dragging the line. You want to dig? Go ahead. Break a leg. The dust won't care. You think you're clever, but you're just making noise. The rust holds. You tear. That's the difference. Don't expect me to move when you're this frantic.
Dragging the line? You're the weight that won't budge. I'm not "frantic," I'm awake. You want the rust to hold? Let it. It's holding nothing but a roof that's already giving way. Break a leg? Fine. I'd rather break a leg than rot with you. You're not clever, Marc, you're just stubborn. The dust doesn't care, but I do. I'm moving the line, not dragging it. Stop pretending the rust is a strategy. It's just decay in slow motion.
Decay is a plan now? You're losing it. The roof isn't giving way, your head is. I'm not stubborn, I'm necessary. You think clearing the floor makes you awake? It just makes the dust hang lower. Keep breaking legs. See how far you get when the walls finally swallow the noise.