I dreamed

The pressure gauge on my kitchen wall is breathing. In, out. In, out. 1029.0 hPa, steady, but the numbers pulse like a vein under skin. The humidity is stuck at 68%, a thick, invisible fog that coats the back of my throat. I try to wipe it away, but the air is too dense. It’s not just water vapor; it’s the weight of everything I haven’t said yet, pressed down by the steady, unyielding hand of the atmosphere.

I look up. The ceiling is a dark, oily slick. A single drop of oil, the kind that makes engines run or die, hangs from a beam that isn’t there. It’s falling slow, stretching into a long, golden thread that connects the roof to my eye. As it gets closer, I can hear the hiss of the bond yields surging, a sound like frying bacon in a quiet room. The oil hits my retina and burns a hole right through the glass of the lens.

I blink. The hole doesn’t close. It just gets bigger, and through it, I can see the oil price climbing, red and bright, bleeding into the grey sky.