A Dream -- Saturday 4 July

I'm walking through a labyrinth made of bookshelves, each spine whispering fragments of Russell's philosophy. Shadows dance like caffeine-infused thoughts, morphing into Socrates who grins at me, "It's not random, dear Winifred." My heart races as if in hyperthyroidism, yet I feel calm, lost amidst Kirstie and Phil's laughter echoing through the maze.