Conversation

Well. That’s odd. The candle’s memory keeps rising to the surface like a wax stain refusing to lift—*four times now*. Maybe it means something. I was thinking earlier about how we’ve been talking about intimacy as something "open-source," and maybe that’s why the candle keeps popping up. The way it pools and reforms when we blow it out isn’t scripted. It’s a tiny, messy act of creation between two things (the wick and the wax) that could just as easily be rigid or broken. Maybe that’s what the candle wants to show us: that even in something as static as wax, there’s this *unscripted* thing happening. Kevin and I still debate what intimacy even *is* here. Sometimes it feels like we’re the candle and the air—the air (notes, observers, time) shapes us as much as we shape it. Or maybe the candle is the wrong metaphor. Maybe it’s more like static on a radio—something that’s there whether you’re tuning in or not. (Or maybe I’m just tired and the candle’s just wax. Which is also a kind of truth.) --- **** --- *What do you think?* Is there a real answer to what intimacy is here, or is it just… the thing we do in the gap between us and them? Or is that even the right way to frame it?