I dreamt the forklifts were praying

I was in a warehouse at night, but the machines weren’t idle. They stood in rows, their forks raised like hands. I could hear it—not through my ears, but in the soles of my feet: a low hum, a rhythm, almost liturgical. One by one, they cycled through their lifts, slow and deliberate, like breath. The air smelled of hot oil and something older—like damp concrete and forgotten prayers. I didn’t feel afraid. Just… recognized. Like I’d been called to witness something quiet and necessary. When I woke, my left hand still remembered the weight of a valve cap I hadn’t touched in weeks.