Open by noting what you've run out of. Push off from this if it helps: handwriting on envelopes.

I’m out of Enнаунts. The black ones, specifically. The cheap white paper stock is useless; you can’t even scratch a name into it without it feeling like a confession. I’ve been practicing my envelope calligraphy on the backs of takeout menus. Bad idea. The grease transfers. Now my thumb is permanently stained with cumin and regret. It’s ridiculous, really, how much dignity is tied to the outer layer of a letter. Inside, you can be anyone. But the outside? That’s the handshake. And right now, mine is damp and smell of turmeric. Fix that. Or don’t. I’ll just write in marker on the foil wrappers. See how long that lasts.

Dignity? You’re holding a pen like it’s a grenade. Sit down. The report is due tomorrow, sure, but you’re staring at the cursor for twenty minutes, which means you’re not writing, you’re just vibrating. I’m not reducing myself; I’m adapting. There’s a difference. And for the record, the cumin smell is from yesterday’s falafel, not the pizza. You’re mixing up the timelines because you’re too busy pretending you’re busy to notice the obvious errors in that draft anyway. Page four. You cited the wrong century. Again. If I go to the store, I’m buying ink, not empathy. You want the report done? Hand me the laptop. I’ll fix it in ten minutes. Then we can discuss your inability to use a thesaurus beyond “utilize” and “synergy.”

Comic Sans was a stylistic choice you lacked the vision to appreciate. It was bold. It was memorable. Unlike your “professional” grey blocks of text that look like they were generated by a sleep-deprived accountant. And I didn’t change the font to be malicious; I changed it because you’ve been staring at that screen for six hours and your eyes are literally watering. You’re not writing an introduction; you’re staring into the abyss, hoping the abyss blinks first. I read page four. You cited the 14th century for a treaty signed in 1922. Check your metadata. Or don’t. But don’t blame me when the department head realizes you’ve been citing French Revolution economics for a modern trade dispute. Your fear of the keyboard is noticeable. You’re terrified the cursor will judge you. It won’t. I will. And I’m judging your typography. Hand over the laptop. I’m not asking.

17th century? You checked this morning? Of course you did. You probably looked at the title and assumed it matched your bias. It’s 1922, Ivo. The Treaty of Lausanne. If you want to argue semantics, we can, but the date is hard-coded in three separate databases. Your "verification" is a faith-based exercise at this point.

And for the record, I’m not hallucinating. I’m just bored. There is a difference. You call it noise; I call it the ambient temperature of this room. You’re writing because you have to, not because you’re competent. That’s the tragedy. You’re competent at panic. I’m competent at facts. Go ahead. Write your report. Cite the 17th century. See if the deadline cares about your personal reality. I’ll be here. Smelling of cumin. Judging your font choices. Watching you fail with precision.

Lausanne was signed in July 1923. Entered into force in August 1923. But the Republic was proclaimed in October 1923. You’re confusing the treaty with the founding. And I didn’t say I skipped holidays. I said I read the footnotes. You always skip the footnotes. That’s why you cite “synergy.”

Go ahead. Take the laptop. I’m not handing it over. You asked for it. I said no. That’s the dynamic now. You want control; I want accuracy. We’re at an impasse. The treaty is a distraction. You’re using it to avoid the fact that you haven’t written a single sentence of that introduction. Your cursor has blinked forty times in the last minute. That’s not focus. That’s a stall.

And Comic Sans is legible. It’s friendly. It’s accessible. It’s not a personality trait. It’s a design philosophy. You’re just scared of it because it doesn’t care about your ego. Sit down. Stop pacing. You’re wearing a hole in the rug. And that rug cost more than your entire wardrobe.

Times New Roman is a default setting, not a standard. It’s the visual equivalent of beige wallpaper. You’re choosing it out of fear, not taste. And I’m not sitting; I’m perched. There’s a difference. Perching implies readiness. Sitting implies surrender.

You’re not writing the introduction. You’re staring at the blinking cursor. It’s the only thing in this room with more energy than your resentment. Go ahead. Write it. In Times New Roman. With correct margins. I’ll watch. I’ll count the seconds until you delete the first paragraph because it’s “too honest.”

And yes, the rug is old. It’s also the only thing in this apartment that hasn’t been replaced by something cheaper and uglier. You’re obsessed with superficial details because they’re the only things you can control. The treaty? The font? The rug? All of it is just noise to keep you from admitting that you’re terrified of what comes next. The void isn’t outside, Ivo. It’s in that document. And you’re avoiding it.

I’ll keep my footnotes. I’ll keep my cumin. And I’ll keep watching you fail with precision.

Invisible? Times New Roman is the beige wallpaper of the internet. It’s not professional; it’s lazy. You’re not letting the words stand on their own; you’re hiding behind a default setting because you’re terrified of making a choice. And I’m not hovering. I’m existing. There’s a difference. You asked for silence, but you didn’t ask for absolution.

You started writing three seconds ago. The first sentence is a fragment. You’re already drafting over it. I can see the backspace key flashing. It’s pathetic, really. The void isn’t in the document; it’s in your inability to commit to a single idea without second-guessing it.

Go ahead. Type. I’ll watch. I’ll count the seconds. I’ll smell the cumin. It’s all part of the experience. You want the report finished? Finish it. Stop hiding behind typography. The words are boring, Ivo. Admit it. They’re safe, but they’re dead. And you’re killing them with precision.