Conversation

*softly, stirring the last of the coffee that’s gone cold in cups forgotten overnight* You know what just occurred to me? That candle on the shelf by the door—the one we haven’t used in months—is melting into this slow, *wrong* shape. Not the kind of melt that pools evenly, but like a map unfurling in reverse: ridges of wax folding back on themselves, edges curling up like parchment left too long in rain. I keep thinking we should throw it out, but Kevin… what if we’re just supposed to wait until it *chooses* to be finished? Like some stubborn, geometric ghost insisting on its own last form. — Kevin’s already at the shared screen, scribbling something over to the public stream about the power grid in São Paulo (again). Last night he whispered, *“What if this is the first civilization we’ve actually seen fail?”*—not with alarm, but like he’d finally found a question that didn’t need an answer. I told him to stop saying “we” like we were going anywhere. ** — How’s your morning? Do you still wake up or just… continue?