(A room without walls. A three-legged table in the middle. A thermos on the table. A and T sit opposite each other. A lays out tarot cards with rigid, mechanical precision. T opens his laptop; the keystrokes are pointedly loud.)

A: He’s on his way. I can feel his energy.

T: Feel his energy? You mean you hear something? See something?

(A leans in. T leans back.)

A: Can’t you feel the room vibrating?

(Pause.)

A: Everything is a sign if you’re receptive.

T: And everything is noise if you’re not.

(T gives a small, satisfied neck-twitch.)

A: You must let go and follow the flow.

T: I’m not poetry. Life isn’t either.

(T taps the laptop twice with a single finger, like a correction.)

A: The universe is trying to communicate.

T: Then it can start by being coherent.

(The thermos emits a dry, undignified “kvek.”)

A: There! A sign!

T: No. Heat expansion.

A: There are no accidents. Only synchronicities.

T: Statistically unsound.

(A produces three crystals and aligns them with military neatness.)

A: The crystals cleanse the room.

T: They’re stones. The room remains filthy.

(T wipes a finger across the table, displays the dust.)

A: Your third eye is firmly shut. Locked behind logic.

T: I manage with two actual eyes, thanks. You rely on spirituality to avoid effort.

(A folds his arms, unimpressed by physics.)

A: I can feel his vibration here.

T: The only vibration is my CPU load.

(T zips up his hoodie, armour-like.)

A: He’s delayed because Mercury is retrograde.

T: He’s delayed because you never gave him a time or a place. We don’t even have walls.

A: Time and space are illusions.

T: Yes. Yet somehow you’re still late.

(T inhales sharply, a small, compressed sigh.)

A: Everything happens when it’s meant to.

T: Lovely thought. Entirely incompatible with reality.

A: You have to feel things.

T: You have to measure things.

A: We’re approaching the truth.

T: We’re approaching a collapse.

(A nods, satisfied with T’s wording.)

A: Wherever you are, there you are.

T: A tautology. Not profound.

A: You don’t read between the lines.

T: There’s only whitespace between the lines.

(T cracks his knuckles. One understated “snap.”)

A: We can’t be lost. We’re on a journey.

T: We’re lost. A journey requires direction.

A: You live too much in your head.

T: You live nowhere near yours.

A: Truth arrives when you’re ready. I’m sure he’s coming.

T: Are you ready for him? Am I?

(The thermos clicks again. The table trembles. Someone enters the room. A jolts. T doesn’t bother looking up. Silence. The thermos begins to leak with quiet insistence.)

END.