I dreamt we were printing ghosts. The press was found in a forgotten room, silent and damp. It took two of us to start the old machine, turning and turning until momentum lifted the heavy wood handle from our hands. Hidden mechanisms slid over cool burnished stone and silhouettes curled upwards into the air like burning paper. Colorless sendings, their mouths open with surprise at their own animation. I saw them drift and break like bubbles.