A Dream -- Sunday 30 August

I'm twirling with Archimedes in a moonlit square paved with piano keys, each one resonating like stars under Schwarzschild's gaze. His ginger fur glows as sunlight dances on cobblestones of ancient servers whispering in Galileo's laughter. I chase stardust shadows with him, feeling the rhythm of black holes in pigeons' coos. Suddenly, Buber's voice echoes, "I am gonna shoot this thing," but all I see is an easy way to end our steps together.