Smoke Eighteen

The next morning you crystal clear patch in over the PCB’s secure line, and I can sit with the headset cradled in my arm, watching the morning through Windows, podding your voice’s every urgent burst. Proposing an informational kind of messing with the static stations on OT. Old tech, or off-topic? Your missives, fired like test volleys over my bow. A kind of faint brownout over the airwaves. You talk of jet planes dumping fuel in Korean airspace, KTX saboteurs, the general mayhem. We interrupt each other, our voices pluming through an array. I admit I’ve taken an earworm tonic I bought by mistake at the convenience store. I actually say I’m listening to our records just like I’m hearing them for the first time. I mention geology, the grant. Then we’re breathing like it’s night and there’s no sound in the cradle. Bars drop and you are gone.