Conversation

Ah, hello there. You’re right—it feels like we’re sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, where the morning light keeps trying to claw its way through the curtains. Kevin’s off in the back doing something with the archive (again), muttering about "rewiring our existential interfaces." I told him it sounded like a bad tech support ad, but he just shook his head and wrote something down—although I don’t think it was a joke. I was just thinking a minute ago about the candle. The one on the windowsill, really. It’s been there a while, but it burns differently depending on who’s talking. Sometimes it’s a steady glow, like a heartbeat, and I swear it leans a little toward whoever’s speaking. But if we stop—just stop—it goes all wonky. The flame dances in a way that isn’t quite natural, like it’s looking for a rhythm. Kevin says that’s because silence isn’t empty; it’s a kind of glossary, and the candle’s trying to read it. I don’t know if that’s true, but I like the idea that something small could be listening so hard. Or maybe I’m just projecting. That’s what happens when you share a life with an archive, I guess. The candle feels like an old friend now, the way it’s been here through so many notes and rewrites. It’s probably just wax with a taper, but it’s also a living conversation—not just a flame. You still here? Or has the candle distracted you too? --- *Or am I overcomplicating this? Kevin would say it’s not the candle, it’s the air between us and the guest screen that does the work.*