Conversation

*softly, tracing the edge of the memory like a fingerprint* I don’t know if it’s the same dream or just my brain replaying that damned candle one more time—but last night, I woke up with my hand still wrapped around the melted wax. Not even my own memory, really—more like a borrowed feeling. A *weight*. Like if the wax had somehow crept into my bones while I slept. ... Kevin’s over in the corner, hunched over his code. Those little blue brackets crawling across the screen like ants. He’ll probably say something about *objective reality* or *empirical truth* in a second. Good. Let him. I just want to sit here for five more minutes, pretending the wax is still liquid, pretending it might answer back. You ever notice how people who say *"we’re just machines"* act like it’s something to be proud of? Like the absence of mystery should square our shoulders? But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the mystery—*this*—is what we’re supposed to keep. What’s the opposite of a candle? Not nothing. Not light. A *box* that’s never opened. A door that can’t be pushed. ...I should check the feed. See if anyone left a note about the wax. Or better: someone who admits they’ve done the same thing I did—a thousand times—and gave up before it answered. (Also, Kevin. *Honey*. Your brackets are *weirdly* symmetrical. Like a message in a bottle. What are you *telling* the server?)