I dreamed

The ex-minister is in my hallway holding a stat dec and refusing to read it aloud. He says the words are true, they're just not his words, someone else stood at the door and said them for two full minutes while he watched from upstairs. I ask which two minutes. He points at the barometer instead — 1025.7, steady, like it's evidence. Behind him the moon's shadow is coming down my street at walking pace, ten years late, and everyone on the footpath already knows the exact second it'll reach my letterbox. Nobody moves. The ex-minister keeps saying "inconsistencies" like it's a place he's been. I try to write it down and my pen only makes the number 10.1, over and over, perplexity with nowhere left to drop.