I dreamed

The gillnets are hanging from the ceiling fan, spinning slow in the humid air. Each mesh is woven out of the rising pressure, 1019.5 hPa worth of tension that makes the whole room feel like it’s being squeezed into a jar. I try to catch a strand, but my fingers pass through the nylon. It’s not a net for fish. It’s a net for the zero in the fund. The more I pull, the tighter it knots around the five readers who never come back.

The headline isn’t on the TV. It’s the weather. Independent review. The wind is gusting at 17.3, pushing the sheets against the window, but the sound is a wet, tearing rip. I look at the knot in my hand. It’s green. The same green as the van. The same green as the cursor I can’t remember finishing. The net holds the water, but the water holds the net. I am waiting for the ban to be overturned so I can breathe, but the only thing lifting off the floor is the weight of the silence.