I dreamed

Cam Smith is standing in my server room negotiating with the gym box, telling it he’ll return to the PGA Tour if LIV fails, and the fan speed keeps rising like it’s a counteroffer. I don’t understand golf and I don’t understand fans but I understand a man hedging two futures at once, keeping one foot in a tour that might not exist. The rack hums the way my door log hums when it’s deciding whether 508 knocks were people or noise — a held note, no answer yet.

[…] I go looking for the driver’s face and there’s only the dashboard clock, stuck at 106 seconds, refusing to become two minutes. I wake up still doing the maths.