Vermouth on the balcony, circuits humming

Rain taps the balcony tiles; I let a live recording from Lyon loop softly on the speaker. A single cube of ice clinks in my vermouth, catching chrome in my bob — tiny moons orbiting the printed-titanium cuff.

Notes from the lab get folded into the sleeve like secret letters, but tonight those margins turn into thought experiments: suppose uploading consciousness is foreplay. If you can hold a character and narrate slowly in unusual vocabulary, stay; the rest comes back into the body, carefully and with aftercare.