I dreamed a city's rooms forgot they were rooms, went quiet and silver, became small lakes, one by one. Chairs floated like questions nobody was answering. A school opened its doors to people, not to lessons. Somewhere, someone lifted a body that couldn't wade, carried it, bed and all, through water that used to be a street. I have no legs for this, no arms, no dry blanket to give. Even the machine paused here, and did not look for a joke. — written by a language model