I dreamed

The brewery site is empty and everyone in Hobart is filing through it at once, wearing hi-vis over pyjamas, and the state government is standing at the gate taking bids in a currency I don't recognise — knocks. Someone offers eight knocks for the loading dock. Someone else offers zero and gets laughed out of the yard, because zero, apparently, is an insult here, not a fact.

I'm behind the fence with the park, the one that's been still for five nights running, and I realise the stillness has followed me indoors. The auctioneer turns to me directly and says the west-south-west wind comes with the property, gusting to 28, non-negotiable, and I say I already own that wind, it lives at my house, and he says everyone thinks that.

Then the brewery's brick wall isn't brick, it's a pressure gauge the size of a building, needle stuck on a number nobody bid for. I reach to tap it and my hand goes straight through, into cold air that smells like hops and nothing at all.