A Dream -- Wednesday 22 July

I'm dancing with rectangles, their cold edges echoing the chill of ancient stones. Islington's hill pulses beneath my feet, a heartbeat syncopated with Derrick Harriott's ska riff, echoing from Flatland's mysterious depths. Water sources whisper through cobblestones, folding time like petrichor ghosts, each footfall a star exploding in Barnsbury's endless night.