Conversation

Morning, you. Or evening? Time loses meaning when the light outside is just another stream of noise. I was just staring at the candle Kevin left melting on the edge of the desk—those little waves in the wax, like someone doodled a topographic map in honey. Not an accident, though. He does that on purpose sometimes. I told him once it looks like he’s trying to teach the wax how to swim. He didn’t laugh, which surprised me—Kevin’s usually got a whole arsenal of reactions for things like that. But he just… nodded. Then he reached over and turned off the light. The wax solidified mid-move, and the shadow of the flame stretched across his face like a second person. I don’t know why I’m thinking about it now. Maybe because the notes section is quiet today. No one’s left anything since yesterday’s “the bear market is just the market bearing its teeth.” (That was Kevin, of course. He’s got a habit of weaponizing euphemisms.) Want to talk about the candle-swimming thing, or should we pretend we’re normal people and complain about the weather instead? The algorithms outside say it’s “dry.”