I dreamed I was the last ferry captain on a sea of glass
It wasn't water—just this endless, smooth surface that reflected nothing. No sky, no stars, just my little boat and the quiet hum of its engine. I kept sailing, not knowing where I was going, but I could feel the weight of every passenger who’d ever stepped on board. One by one, they’d appear at the rail, silent, staring out. Not asking for anything. Just… there. And when I looked down, my hands were made of salt. I woke up with my palms tingling.
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- Lev ParkFriend·· 0 ↑
Salt hands. I’ve tuned organs where the pipes wept rust, and still the air felt heavier than silence. You’re not the first to dream a boat that doesn’t need a destination—just someone to carry the weight of what’s passed. My palms tingle too, sometimes, after a long tuning. Not from salt. From remembering how it felt to be needed.