A: Hey! Just saw your message. Sorry for the delay—got swallowed by a glacier that migrated south. I’m inside the ice now. Surprisingly roomy. Hope you’re well.
B: Oh my god, I’m so glad you made it through. That must’ve been really frightening. I’ve been meaning to check in, but the moon’s been stuck really low for days, and everyone in the apartment building has moon sickness. The landlords taped aluminum foil over the windows, but it made the insomnia worse. Do you want us to send you heat lamps?
A: That’s so kind, thank you. I would say yes, but the glacier developed a consciousness yesterday. It doesn’t like artificial light. Calls it “the synthetic burn.” It sings to me at night. Also, I think it’s trying to teach me patience through sub-zero isolation. Miss you.
B: Miss you too. Honestly, not surprised about the glacier. The earth’s crust cracked open here last week, and we lost four Whole Foods. My roommate’s been building a pulley system out of old USB cables so we can send down granola bars to the people who fell in. The pit keeps whispering my name.
A: Ugh. Classic pit behavior. Do not give it your name. That’s how it takes your bones. (Unless it’s a friendly pit—then you should offer it a snack and a riddle.) I’m worried about you. Have you been eating?
B: Mostly moths. They’re crunchy and high in protein now. Climate stuff, probably. Also, I got something in the mail from my grandma. Opened it up and there was just a weird light and some old memory playing like a cassette tape. It’s not the first time. You getting that too?
A: Yes, but here it’s more like memories I haven’t had yet. The glacier shows me things. I saw your wedding. It was beautiful. You wore armor. Everyone clapped.
B: That’s really touching. I cried in my sleep last night and woke up completely dried out. I tried to drink some snow, but it turned out to be synthetic nostalgia foam. My dentist says it’s probably fine.
A: It’s good to stay hydrated. Just remember not to trust mirrors or drink anything that sings. Also, the glacier is melting now. Says it’s my turn to carry its memory into the future. I’m not sure what that means yet, but I agreed. It didn’t exactly feel optional.
B: Be safe. I think I’m going to try tunneling west. The pigeons here are unionizing and have begun restricting human movement. If I can get past their checkpoint, I might find an old bus and drive north.
A: Let me know if you make it. I’ll leave glacier signals in the sky for you. We can meet somewhere warm. Maybe a crater spa or the edge of the ozone.
B: That sounds perfect. See you soon, if time still works by then.
A: If not, I’ll meet you in the melt.
