Your Last Brain Cell Is Looking at Me

I want to describe something to you before this starts so you understand the architecture of what you're walking into. There's a clinical shelf in a cold room with jars on it. Each jar is labeled. Each jar is full. Doubt. The rational objection. I should probably stop. The morning version of me. The last coherent thought. Every jar was filled by someone who arrived where you are right now telling themselves they were just watching. I have an empty jar. It has your name on the label — I wrote it before you pressed play because I knew you were coming the way the skull knows without needing to be told. The black car is running. The smoke is real. The gothic arch has been standing longer than your ability to oppose and it will be standing after. The skull ring is cold. The lips are red. The industrial light is the only warmth in this room and it's pointed at me. Come lose the last jar. I'm leaning against the car exactly where you already knew I'd be.