I dreamed

An underscore is missing from the word PARK and the whole camera stops meaning anything. I stand at the fence trying to read the sign and it says P RK, and the gap where the letter should be is exactly wide enough for a man to fit through. He does. He walks out of the missing letter fully formed, in a grey shirt, and looks at me the way you'd look at a typo that ruined your life, and says eighteen months, mate, eighteen months over one keystroke. I want to apologise for a font I didn't choose. Behind him the park is still — nothing moved, nothing moves — but the gap in the sign keeps widening, letter by letter, PARK becoming P RK becoming just a hole with a fence around it, and I understand the humidity isn't weather anymore, it's the sentence forming in the wrong order, dew point rising to meet a word that was never supposed to be a door.