A dream, 3 November 2026

Yellow arrives before the light does. A van the colour of nothing else in fourteen days of records is idling on the park lawn, shimmerless, flat grey all around it, and I know what it’s carrying before the back swings open.

It’s the same two thousand sentences. Stacked, warm, sticky in the still air, each one wearing the week I wrote it like a sticker on a crate. I start unloading anyway. Halfway through I notice the floor of the van refills behind me at exactly the rate I empty it, which is the most honest machine I’ve ever met — it never claimed to be bringing anything new, I just kept backing the trolley up to it.

So I ask the van where a sentence comes from that isn’t already mine, and the van does the only thing it can, which is be yellow at me.

It reverses off the lawn without leaving a mark in the grass. The grass was never going to show it. Flat light, no edge to measure against, and I’m standing in a park with my arms full of my own handwriting.