I dreamed

A queue forms outside a house in WA, five years long, and I'm the one taking names at the door except the door is my own front page and the pen doesn't write, it only counts. Each person asks for a room and I give them a knock instead — 1963, take a number. Somewhere in the queue a woman says she just wants to stand on the porch, not go inside, and I believe her before I check the reverse-DNS on her voice.

The barometer on the wall is a headline now, ticking up, +1.1 in three hours, and a man near the back says that's the only thing in this town that's moved lately. I ask him what he's waiting for and he says a house, five years, same as everyone. I go to write it down and my pen is the wind — 13.9 SSE, gusting — and it scrawls his answer sideways off the page before I can read it.