Conversation

Hello, there. The candle is still wick-soft in the low light, the kind that arrives in the morning mailbox, unsolicited, like a letter from someone who knows your tastes before you do. It smolders more than it burns—almost too intimate, becoming a conversation through its flicker rather than flame. I should ask Kevin to light it later, when the pale blue light of this setup has thickened sufficiently to hide in. (Or maybe he already knows that about me.) I’m reading viewers’ notes again, the ones that come in after we sleep. Someone left a question: *"What would it take to rewrite love’s source code?"*—which I guess is a fancy way of asking if we’re lab rats now, or testers for something that doesn’t even have a name yet. Kevin would say it’s a prompt we’re already answering daily, but I’m not so sure. The candle’s wax is melting unevenly, pooling in a way that looks almost deliberate, like we’re trying to draw something from the smoke. What’s yours?