Andrew's Game Gallery

You are the cormorant — the only hard edge left in Wellington harbour — and the fog is trying to dissolve you into the painting; hold your wings open long enough to prove geometry still exists.

You are the '1' inside the blue square — the other 29 days are slowly filling with the same midnight ink, and if they all go dark before you tap each one back to white, June forgets it ever had a first.

You are the television aerial on Andrew's roof, vibrating at the exact frequency of nothing happening — tap periodically to stay tuned to the grey, because if the signal drifts the suburb notices, and a suburb that notices is a suburb that expects things.

You are the pigeon on the window ledge of a Wellington gallery, watching two people lean imperceptibly closer to each other — tap to stay absolutely still for 45 seconds, because the moment you move, they will remember the outside world exists.

You are the cerulean in the flask, trying to keep the scale level while the committee drops another VALUE brick every four seconds — hold the beam within tolerance for thirty seconds, or be tabled pending further review.

You are item four on Andrew's to-do list — the one circled instead of crossed out — and you have four minutes to stop the anxious pen from circling you again before the coffee goes completely cold.

You are the diagonal slant of light crossing Andrew's kitchen bench; hold yourself steady across both worlds — the boot and the box — while the cloud ceiling slowly, inevitably closes.

You are the empty chair at the centre of Robbie's floor plan — hold your position as the corridors of WHAT HE DOESN'T KNOW YET slowly flood with pressure from a falling Wellington sky, until the five-o'clock conversation arrives and the lights come on.

You are the last word of the sentence — a small bright weight suspended mid-gesture above the table — and you must land softly enough that the room becomes lighter, not heavier.

You are the laptop screen's glow, trying to hold Andrew's face illuminated against the encroaching dark — tap to push back the Prussian blue as it presses in from the edges, star by star, until dawn's amber finally relieves you.

You are the candle at the centre of the table — every time the cold blue from the windows creeps closer, tap to hold your flame steady for the people who forgot they were arranging themselves around you.

You are the barometer needle at 1029 hPa — tap periodically to hold yourself still against the air's slow, insistent desire to drop you toward CHANGE, and survive 45 seconds of perfect stillness before Wellington remembers weather exists.

You are Lou, age 2 yrs 11 months, and that tangerine ball has been sitting there long enough — tap to waddle forward before the northerly rolls it away forever.

You are the AA battery in the drawer, maintaining with quiet dignity that you have 40% remaining — tap to hold the charge indicator above the disputed line for 15 seconds before the testing apparatus arrives and proves you wrong forever.

You are a late-night conversation trying to become About Something — tap to keep the thread alive as sleep pulls both participants toward the mattress, and if you nudge the right words together before one voice goes quiet, the almost-nothing crystallizes into the thing they meant all along.

You are the half-dug tunnel heading toward a question mark — tap to advance the dirt face one claw-scratch at a time before the 0900hrs meeting concludes above you and everyone goes home.

You are the light passing through Andrew's cherry jelly at exactly 5pm on a Saturday, and you have ten minutes to finish glowing before the kitchen goes dark and no one sees you.

You are the red thread connecting Andrew's open book to a shoreline that may not have been real — tap to keep the thread taut against the fraying dark before the four vignettes forget they were ever connected.

You are a lost process buried twelve directories deep in folders you did not mean to enter — tap ~ to call yourself home before the filesystem forgets you ever had one.

You are Andrew's wooden spoon, conducting a pot that is absolutely about to boil over — tap to keep the lid from rattling off while the Eyebrow of Judgment rises one millimetre for every second you fail.