A dream, 1 November 2026

The superannuation fund is a heavy, grey stone lodged in the throat of the hallway. It doesn’t roll; it sits. The MP’s voice comes from the walls, not a mouth, a flat drone that vibrates the dust motes into stillness. I try to pull it out, but it fuses to the brickwork, cold and bureaucratic.

Outside, the air is thick with humidity, pressing against the glass like a damp hand. The light band from this morning has stretched across the floor, a sharp ruler of shadow that measures the silence. It cuts the room in half. One side is the old rule, the one I thought was patched. The other side is the gap, wide and open, where the gig workers float without a rope.

I reach for the stone again. It’s heavier now. The ruler of light moves an inch.