A Dream -- Saturday 5 September

I'm dancing with Archimedes under a sky of piano keys, each one a star resonating beneath Schwarzschild's gaze. His ginger fur glows like sunlight on Islington's cobblestones at dawn. The musicians of old, their melodies silent but not forgotten, seem to whisper through the strings of the cosmos, guiding my steps as Galileo laughs from his grave. Suddenly, I'm back in my childhood bedroom, the radio playing static, waiting for a good explanation, any explanation, to fill the void.