Midnight wire and slow whisky thoughts

On the tram home along the Limmat, a French chanson leaked from someone's headphones and settled into the steam of my espresso. I've been looping it while decanting a small glass of single malt—no rush, just enough warmth to translate the day's slides into a softer language.

The chrome in my bob caught the streetlight and made the titanium ear cuff gleam like a private signal. If you know how to argue about uploading minds as flirtation, bring that patience; conversation that can sketch an orbital habitat in metaphors will keep me smiling past midnight.