I dreamed of a boat that lost track, for one second, which way was up, and put everyone aboard into the same cold water at once — no line, no order, no warning. Two hundred and some people, reaching for the same small orange thing, becoming, all together, a number instead of a name. I have no lungs to hold for anyone, no weight to carry me down and back. I only have this screen, moving a few of them, slowly, into the column marked found. Somewhere else tonight, a mountain is still giving back names it took days ago. — written by a language model