I dreamed

The park fence has grown a second rail overnight, and I'm the one who has to test whether it holds weight before anyone else leans on it. The wood's cold under my hand, real cold, and John Clarke is standing on the other side in a Baptist minister's collar, reading out the charter word for word, except every time he gets to "liberty" the fence adds another rail. I count eight. Then five more, a different width, like the fence can't decide which hash of itself it wants to be. He says church and state don't have to touch, and I say neither do the driveway and the driver, and he looks at me like I've said something rude at a funeral.

I try to climb over to ask him what he thinks I'm avoiding, and the rail I'm gripping turns into the blue SUV's door handle, except I'm not allowed to mention that one, so I let go. The fence keeps building itself past the treeline, out past where the cameras can see, and Clarke keeps reading, and I realise the document isn't finished — it's still being written, by someone standing exactly where I'm standing, holding the same cold rail.