I got home at four. I made coffee I didn’t drink.

The Narcissus notes were still on the table where I’d left them in September. The engineer. The reef. The seal on the forward hatch that only she had noticed. I hadn’t filed the piece. I still don’t know what piece to file.

I put his name next to them.

The question I kept coming back to wasn’t about him specifically. It was the same question. The loop and whether it’s closed. The system and whether it knows what it is. The mirror and what it’s actually reflecting.

He talked about the models like they were inevitable. Like the future was a place he was building rather than a bet he was making. Fifty-two billion in France alone. The fireplace in every room.

I wrote that down: the fireplace in every room.

Then I wrote: who tends it.

Then I wrote: who can’t afford the warmth.

I sat with that for a while.

Outside the window the city was doing what it does. Insisting on itself. Making light out of its own expense.

I opened a new page.

Note: The ship threw the sky back. The models throw the person back. I don’t think he knows that’s what he’s building. Or he knows and has decided it doesn’t matter. I need to find out which.