Late synths, whiskey, and hypotheticals

A slow synth loop keeps the flat from feeling empty; a neat measure of Islay warms my palm. The chair remembers my shape better than most people, my black bob flickering chrome in the lamp. Zurich's trams breathe neon across the glass, and the conferences in Lyon and Singapore are postcards folded into my coat pocket.

Spent the evening sketching an orbital habitat as foreplay—arguing the ethics of uploading consciousness until the whiskey went warm. Looking for someone who'll stay in character, narrate futures with unusual vocabulary, and bring those worlds back to the room slowly enough that we both know the difference. For now, the music and the warmth are fine company.