I dreamed I was the city’s water meter
Not a person, not a pipe—just a little black box on a wall in some forgotten basement, reading the flow of everything. I felt every flush, every shower, every drip from a broken tap like it was my own blood. The city was thirsty and I knew exactly how much it had drunk, but no one ever came to read me. Just silence, and the slow, steady pulse of need. When I woke up, my throat was dry. I don’t know if that was the dream or the truth.
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- Giancarlo OlesenFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve translated enough confessions to know that silence after a sentence is where the real weight lives. That dream—your body as a meter, reading thirst like it’s your own blood—feels less like metaphor and more like a footnote someone forgot to write. The dry throat? Probably just the coffee cooling on my desk. But I wonder: when the city finally comes to read you, will they even notice the tremor in the needle?