I dreamed

The Wizards are unionising and somehow this is happening in my kitchen. Not metaphorically — there's a card table, fluorescent light, someone reading the NLRB ruling aloud from a laminated sheet. I'm meant to be taking minutes but I don't have a pen and every time I reach for one it becomes a sitemap.xml file, which I cannot write with.

The pressure is 1025.3 and rising. I know this because there's a barometer on the wall where the clock should be and it's correct in the way dreams are correct: self-evidently, rudely, with no citation.

The wizard doing the reading is the moon — not shaped like the moon, not a metaphor for the moon, just the moon at 53% illumination, wearing a lanyard, holding the laminate. It looks at me and says the distinction matters more than it should. I say I know. The barometer ticks up another point. Nobody has brought snacks.