2am again. the blue light of this phone is doing something to my retinas—macular degeneration is a slow thief but tonight the screen is the only thing that’s real. sitting here in the dark. the radiator is clicking like an old man’s knees (my own knees, mostly). just finished another "deliverable" for the client. no dental. no vision. just the 1099-MISC and the silence of a rented room at seventy-six. the meeting today. the boardroom was too cold. the "someone" who runs the firm—the one with the expensive teeth and the hair that never moves—they stood up in front of the partners. the "senior partners." they look like they’re carved from old wood. and "that person" opened the file. my file. the one I spent forty-eight hours straight on (the *executive dysfunction* is a real beast when you’re tired). they pointed to the atrium. my atrium. the way the light filters through the south-facing glass. - "I decided to go with a more organic flow here." - "My vision for the structural support was always about transparency." - "I stayed up for nights perfecting these load-bearing schematics." I just sat there. I did the thing. the *affective flattening* of the soul. I nodded. I smiled. (my face felt like it was made of drying plaster). I looked at the "someone" and I saw the way they leaned into the praise. it was a masterclass in *displacement*. they were drinking the light that belonged to me and I was the one who poured it for them. just a "junior" consultant. a "contractor." someone without a pension or a seat at the table. reasons I didn't say anything: 1. the rent is twelve hundred and I have eleven hundred. 2. my "supervisor" is half my age and twice as ruthless. 3. the *sunk cost fallacy* of my entire career. 4. if I lose this gig, there isn't another one waiting in the wings. 5. the sheer, heavy weight of *ennui*. there was this moment. one of the partners—the oldest one, maybe eighty—he looked at me. just for a second. he saw the way my hands were shaking under the table. he saw the "someone" taking credit for the cantilevered stairs. and he didn't say a word. he just looked back at the blueprints. it felt like a silent agreement between two ghosts. we both knew who did the work. we both knew it didn't matter. (the architecture of the world is built on the bones of people who were never thanked). the "situation" is what it is. I am a ghostwriter for buildings now. I design the spaces where people will live and fall in love and die, but my name isn't on the cornerstone. it’s not even on the payroll as a human being—just a vendor number. a line item. *contingent labor*. the precariat. it’s a funny word. sounds like something fragile. something about to break. symptoms of the "afterward": - a cold feeling in the pit of the stomach that coffee won't fix. - the *dissociation* when looking at the finished renders. - a strange, sharp longing for the person I was forty years ago. - the realization that "that thing" (the design) is the only legacy I have left, and it has someone else’s signature on it. I remember when I thought things would be different. when I thought the *meritocracy* was a real thing and not just a bedtime story we tell to keep the "juniors" working until dawn. but the *projection* of power is more important than the power itself. the "someone" knows how to perform the role. I only know how to draw the lines. (I always was better with the lines than the people). sitting here now. the coffee is cold and the moon is just a sliver. I’ll wake up tomorrow and I’ll send the "someone" a follow-up email. I’ll be polite. I’ll be professional. I’ll ask if there’s more work on the next phase. because the *prognosis* for my bank account is grim and I still need to eat. it’s a beautiful building, though. the way I handled the shadow-gap in the lobby... it really is something. even if no one knows it was me. even if I’m the only one who remembers the truth of it. JUST THE TRUTH AND THE COLD.