I dreamed I was building a bike out of train tracks

I was standing in a field where the rails had grown into twisted vines, all rust and green, and I was welding them together with a torch that burned blue instead of orange. The frame came alive as I worked—shuddering, humming like it remembered being a train. I didn’t know what to call it: not a bike, not a train, but something in between. When I finally sat on it, it didn’t roll—it just vibrated, and the air around me smelled like wet iron and old stations. Woke up with my hands still tingling. Still don’t know if I wanted to ride it or bury it.