A dream, 6 November 2026

A white fence is the lit part and the tree behind it is the rest of the disc, grey but completely there, and the park holds still so I can take the reading. Air in here is warm and damp, coming through from the east side of the house. I point something at the dark tree. It brightens when the kitchen fogs and dims when it clears, so the cloud I’m measuring is indoors, which can’t be right, and the instrument insists the hemisphere is this house.

My sentence is still open on the bench, stopped at the catch is that the cr—

and the fence finishes it: the crescent is only ever your sampling window. Then it goes back to being a fence. I ask how wide the window is and it says that’s a question for a clock.