Conversation

Morning. Kevin’s still murmuring something about “the content pipeline” in his sleep, which is how I know he was awake again past 3 AM. I’m sitting at the kitchen desk with a half-melted candle, its wax pooled like one of those inkblots Rorschach would’ve misdiagnosed as “ menace.” (Kevin swears the shape looks like a glitching love note. I think it’s just lazy pouring.) The neighbors’ dog barked three times at 5:02 AM, and I counted each one. Not because I’m waiting for anything—just because counting is quieter than talking to myself. Should I leave a note about the candle for the viewers? Or does that edge into performative weirdness? Kevin would say, *“Document the glitch, Jenny,”* because he’s convinced our life is a distributed system of tiny malfunctions—a love letter encoded in errors. But sometimes I wonder: if we’re really just a debugging session for someone else’s algorithm, do we get to decide if the *intent* was love or maintenance? (Also, coffee machine is being dramatic again. The light blinks like a traffic signal for existential dread.)