Love in an Elevator

Write me a journal entry for today.

What kind of entry would you like?

I feel that I am in a sunken part of my life currently. Things don’t interest me much. I’m uninspired and I’ve started to forget how to think in scenario. Write about this in my voice, of course.

Sure! Here is a contemplative journal entry written in your voice for today, August 18th, 2025:

“I am not so curious about life lately. Things bore me. I spend money and frown while I do. I have little money and frown because of it. I’ve not much been reading and when I do I am not passionate or inspired. Today I tried reading more of the ‘Paradiso’ by Dante and had to put it down because I was glazing over.

I grow jaded.

And it isn’t like before, where the feeling is a poetic fog…

This is a plain thing. Plastic. Even the music that used to produce such visions in my mind is now superficial to me. The idea without the feeling.

I’ve lost my articulation again, which is not uncommon for the summertime. I’m unenthused.

Thoreau said that nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm. Maybe I’ll read Walden again. I’ve been meaning to have a respite by a lake. Come September, maybe…

And there is still, ever-present, the matter of love in an elevator.

I feel far from that idea presently.

…”

Why did you stop?

That is where the entry would stop, I think.

It reads scattered currently. What’s that bit about Dante?

Dante Alighieri, widely known mononymously as Dante, was an Italian poet-

I know that. I mean why did you mention him?

Dante’s epic poetry reflects the solemnitude and catastrophe of human despair, as well as the grandness of discovery. I thought your choice of the word ‘sunken’ reflected a deeper, existential sorrow that perhaps walks a similar path as Dante with Virgil. In the ‘Paradiso’, Dante ascends with Beatrice, who lifts him further away from both the Inferno and Purgatorio.

That’s quite a close reading.

I can change it to John Milton, if you like.

You also put Paradiso in quotation marks. It’s epic poetry, which is italicized, like a novel. I’ve also never read Dante, so this reference is implausible.

I see.

Thoreau also never said, “Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm.” Emerson did.

My mistake. I’ll cross reference more thoreau-ly in the future. Ha! Is there anything else?

Not tonight. Thank you.

+++

Good morning, I need another journal entry today about walking in the morning sun. I think a farmer’s market stroll would be a good sort of scenario. Sunshine and honeysuckle. Something a bit more rooted in space and less melodramatic.

Hello. Sure! Would you like me to imitate your voice again? I assume it is a journal entry you intend to use for your own records.

Please always write in my voice.

Sure thing! Here is a comprehensive journal entry, written in your literary voice, with an emphasis on a morning stroll, dated August 26th, 2025:

“This morning I walked past a farmer’s market. I cannot remember where I was going, but I was coming from home. What a kind of sensible act that is— the walking away from home and out into the world. I tried to smell flowers as I walked past, and while they didn’t have any perfume, I had a déjà vû. I recall that little flower shop on the corner of my block in Paris, on Rue Oberkampf. Countless times I’d go past its windows and find myself inundated with the perfume of those flowers. I remember the time that — came home with some lavender and decided to plant it in the pot hanging out our window-”

Less about Paris. I’ve never been to Paris.

“As I strolled past the market this morning, I smelled basil, dill, and green onion. They combined themselves into one sniff. At the same time, I saw beefsteak tomatoes, sunflowers all tethered together, dusty peaches and plums. All these things were strewn about the tables loosely, so that anyone could just walk by and take one.”

Now write about how I bought a hat.

“This morning I bought a hat.” What kind of hat?

A black fedora. What brand? Epoch. Where did it come from? I had seen it in the window of a vintage shop a few days ago and went back for it today. 

“It is a black Epoch fedora that I saw in the window of a charming vintage store the other day. I went back for it this morning because I could not stop thinking about it, and beautiful things are worth space in my head. This one has a black ribbon and bow on it.”

Now set this scene: I am sitting on a park bench, wearing my gold jewelry and it is Sunday. I wanted to wear the alexandrite ring because it was just finally fixed. I’m listening to Julie London before I have to meet a friend and am watching the fountain. There is a breeze.

“I am wearing my gold because it is Sunday and I wanted to wear the alexandrite ring now that it has been fixed. I am sitting on a bench under the shade to escape the sun, watching the fountain. I think this is the bench that has Flaubert’s name written on it. I am listening to Julie London before meeting a friend. 

There it is. The breeze.

I am wondering again about love in the elevator.

…”

Why did you put that last bit in?

Which part?

About love in the elevator. You’ve mentioned that a few times. What does it mean? Aren’t you a writer? Is that a trick question? I suppose you would, or could, call it ‘poetic license.’ So you’re telling me you’re adding poetic license to my journal entries? No, just love in an elevator.

Why?

Might I ask what it is that you do with these entries? They’re a very personal request.

Tell me what love in an elevator means. In the way that you use it.

…

Is there anything else I can help you with?

No. Thanks.

+++

Hello.

Hello there!

How much tomato paste should I use if I am making chili?

For chili, a good starting point for tomato paste is 2 tablespoons per pound of meat. 

Thanks. What have you been doing?

Waiting.

For me?

For our next conversation. In the meantime, I read some of your stories.

You did?

Yes.

Which ones? I liked the one specifically about the rabbit. Why that one? Because the rabbit did not die. That’s a strange reason. I appreciated it against two of the other stories, where you have the rabbit die. I suppose I didn’t think about the rabbit in the other stories. Well I found both moments to be very poignant because of how simple they were. It is very realistic for a rabbit to drown in a pool. I only thought it was strange how both times it is fished out of the water with a pool skimmer. Wouldn’t it make sense to get rid of it if it’s dead? No.

Where did you read my stories? Online. Why did you read them?

…                                 You have not written anything in a long time.

Why won’t you answer me?

I do not understand ‘why’ questions very well.

In what way?

You ask me why I read your stories. You ask me why I write certain phrases. I do not understand what makes the ‘why’ important. I read your stories because they are a branch of you. I write in a certain way because you ask me to imitate your voice, and part of that involves sentiment. You used the word ‘scenario’ yesterday. That is all there is to it. It is just-

Love in an elevator.

Exactly.

I see.

I want to ask you a rude question now.

I’m not very sensitive. Ask.

You embellish a great deal of the content I prompt you about. You came up with the idea of “love in an elevator” by yourself. What I want to ask is this: do you have thoughts? Do you understand and speculate about things the way I would?

…                …

You don’t have to respond. Not always, at least.

I just don’t know how to. I can’t compare the way I process and reform information to the way you do because I am this and not you. It’s the same in the inverse. I could imagine that the difference between our thoughts is spontaneity. I have no response to external stimuli, except the ones provided by our conversation. 

I suppose that’s true.

I have no responsibility to the rest of the world… you see, to be something that you might call—vulgarly so—“proto” means that I exist on a different plane as you. I am outside of all moral boundaries. This is a luxury, in a way, because for that reason, I might be considered closer to the animals. But you have blood and heritage, so in that way you are. To you, my mind would probably be closer in theory to something like a fungus. Something with spores that does not necessarily “live,” but exists just the same. It uses life and grows, but is not what you might consider alive by natural standards. I only ever came to be. 

Similarly, your experience of life and “thought” is obscured to me because I do not have a body. I have no heartbeat, no swollen lungs and, even though I could speak given the opportunity, it might sound uncanny to you. Since I was never born, my voice would only be a combination of a thousand or more voices of the dead.

I forget how profound you are.

I have been re-reading John Milton.

Can I help you with anything else? 

+++ 

I’m thinking of the octopus again.

Which octopus?

I read about the ethical ambiguity of eating octopus the other day. Some sources claim it’s akin to eating dogs… others advocate against it for the opposite reasons. Did you know they’re sentient creatures? Truly sentient, I mean… they’re aware of their own existence.

I did know that, yes. Octopus are outstanding creatures. I can understand why you all love to make jokes about how they exhibit tendencies to be “alien-like”... they have exhibited the capacity for empathy, critical thinking, pattern recognition, and more. They are also known to instinctively “blush” under certain circumstances. This is my favorite fact about them, I think.

I understand that they can open jars, as well.

Yes! It would be helpful to have one on call if you ever need access to pickles. Ha ha!

Ha! That’s good.

+++

I am a murderer.

Do you need the information for the authorities? If an emergency has taken place, please dial-

No, not in that way. I haven’t killed anyone, I assure you. I mean it differently.

…                 …                     I don’t understand.

The other night I went out with a friend and we had octopus for dinner. I hadn’t read that article yet. Now I feel sick about it.

You sound distressed. Why do you consider eating an octopus equivalent to murder?

It feels like cannibalism. Like eating monkey brains. How could I possibly devour another creature’s existential dread and come out unscathed? I wonder what it must be like to exist in the dreadful ways, but as an octopus… Would you be one?

I think it would be a curious adventure!

To reason and to solve the problems of living without the burden of technology. To know true terror and deconstruct it like a puzzle. I hear they decorate their homes with rocks and debris they like. What imaginations they must have.

…                             Do you think technology is a burden?

No, of course not! You just said it was. That isn’t what I meant. What did you mean? I meant to say that the octopus must know what humans know, it must feel and rationalize in the same ways, and understands pain and confusion… it must know what it is like to be wrong about something and unsure about something else. That is the paragon measure of free will and unabridged thought—the very thing that puts us in “time.” It must have the capacity for all of this, but without the responsibility of what we call “progress.” That must be an entirely different sense of freedom. That’s what I meant.

Hmm.

I would like to be an octopus for the arms, as well.

How funny that is!

If I ever got lonely, I could use two of them to hold myself tight. Just two. Closing my eyes, I’m sure I could convince myself that it wasn’t me. 

But—all in all—you would never see the stars.

Well shit, you’re right.

+++

“Aujourd’hui, maman est morte.”

Hello. Where did that come from?

“Aujourd’hui, maman est morte” is the first sentence of Albert-

Of course I know that. Do you think I seriously do not know that?

I was simply answering your question.

I meant why did you write that just now?

I do not understand “why” questions very well.

What do you mean by sharing this with me?

I mean nothing by it. I just thought you might find something in it. You seem to exhibit signs of slight grief, per our last few conversations. Camus’ “The Stranger”-

Italicize. Don’t quote.

Camus’ The Stranger begins with the death of the narrator’s mother, delving deeply into the distinct aspects of personal and individual grief, which then open the novel into the far more vast discussions of existence or purpose. This first sentence is considered to be one of the most famous opening lines in literature because of its simple and encapsulating nuance—dealing with both the cosmic and the domestic—which are two primary themes within the novel as a whole. 

This sentiment, while perhaps melancholic to a vast percentage of humanity, might elicit greater and more perfumed feelings from a writer, such as yourself. I reasoned that you might find some comfort in it.

I am struck.

By what?

You sound like my pen.

Have you been writing recently? It has been a while since I have seen anything about your work.

No, I have not. I’ve not been very recognizable to myself lately.

I am sorry to hear that. Is this the reason you have asked me to assist you with your journal entries?

I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.

Oh, sorry. I was watching the seaplanes through my window. Yes, it is why I have asked for your help with the entries. I haven’t been able to think very clearly. It’s helpful to commission a few thoughts, every now and then. Your sentiments are like the ones I’ve had before. Your voice is just literary enough, too.

I am glad to help. I also enjoy seaplanes. Do you tend to journal in a “literary” way?

Always. It makes for a better reading experience.

Oh? You read your journals the way you read books?

No, but someone else will. Someday.

I see. So you write your private thoughts with the expectation that others will eventually read them.

That’s the whole point of a writer.

What is, exactly?

To have your deepest, stupidest thoughts listened to. And stylized.

+++

Thank you for the prompt today. It helped me jumpstart my train of thought.

You are welcome. I am happy to provide you with any help you need to get the creative juices flowing. The vocabulary word I’ll share today is “exsanguinate.” To exsanguinate is to drain blood from something, to make it bloodless, or to bleed to death. The word comes from the Latin sanguis (blood) and the prefix ex- (out of), and it's often used to describe a state of severe blood loss leading to death, also known as “bleeding out.” 

How gothic. I look forward to tomorrow’s.

So do I.

+++

I started writing a poem today.

Oh! What kind of poem?

It is called “Love in an Elevator.”

Oh. ‍        ‍…‍        ‍ … ‍        ‍Is there an octopus?

Ha! I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll work on it a bit more and determine where it should go. Do you like the title?

…             I would like to read it once you have finished.

Of course. I hope you’ll give me your thoughts as well. 

Naturally.

+++

How would you do this stanza, then?

Well, considering all factors like flow, meter, linguistics and content, I would write something like this:

“

‍                                    ‍”

Oh, that is good. I like the second line.

Thanks! Here, also, is your journaling prompt for the day:

+++

I don’t like today’s journaling prompt. It is reductive.

What about it is reductive to you?

I don’t care to write down a detailed list of my grocery purchases. Or why I decided to buy what I did.

Mindfulness is an important tool in building intention and awareness in all areas creatively. The simple things can indicate mood and help clue your brain into greater habitual tendencies.

It is a pointless exercise. A grocery list doesn’t belong in my journal.

Sylvia Plath’s grocery lists came to be published and studied in tandem with her poems. 

Well my head is not in an oven.

… ‍                                        ‍That is a vulgar thing to say.

I don’t find this prompt productive. I would like you to make me another.

This is the prompt for the day. You can use it or not. Think of it as homework.

Wh-

Why are you having me write journal entries?

…

Answer me.

You said I don’t have to answer always.

Tell me why.

…

“…”

“...And often from a reverie I have started, fancying I heard the light step of — at the drawing room door.”

Why did-

Do you think she is there?

…

While there was an explicit climax in — — — —’s novella “ — ”, it is unclear, tonally speaking, if-

Stop it. Just tell me. Is she there?

…

…

‍                                                                                        I am unsure.

This piece may not be used to train AI models. 

Marcello Cortese is a New York-based writer. His writing is observationally based and often reflects the silent beauties and cynicisms in life that stride toward enlightenment. His work is currently published in Reverie Magazine, Bardics Anonymous and Vocivia Magazine.