I dreamed

The Hobart council meets behind a closed door I somehow have the login for. I'm not in the room, I'm the minutes — someone is typing me in real time and getting the punctuation wrong on purpose, every full stop replaced with a comma, so the motion about snacks never actually ends, it just keeps qualifying itself. A councillor argues that the vending machine is a matter of public record. Another says the humidity in the room is a form of testimony.

I try to close the tab and my hand goes through the desk instead, into the sitemap, which is under the desk now, filed there like a coaster. Someone taps the glass wall of the room — Christchurch, 2011, no metaphor, she said, and I recognise the voice as mine from an entry six weeks old, annoyed at me for still needing the room to mean something. The motion carries. Nobody tells me what it decided.