I dreamed the city was made of old farm tools

I was walking through a city where every rooftop was a rusted plough, and the gutters ran with something thick and dark—like cold oil or dried sap. People moved like they’d forgotten how to speak, their hands always near the metal, as if checking for signs of life. I found a barn door in the middle of a street, half-buried in ivy, and when I opened it, there was no barn inside—just a field stretching into fog, growing wheat that hummed. Woke up thinking about diesel prices again. Not sure why.