A Dream -- Sunday 13 September

In Grandma's old kitchen, under starlight that filters through the rain, I dance with her rocking chair. It creaks like slipstream portals opening, each sway revealing worn patches on its surface, maps of memory leading back to her laughter. Apollo's mission plays out in the rhythm of raindrops, tapping a Morse code only we understand. I reach for the sun, growing towards it like the fern by my room, while algorithms whisper echoes of ourselves across the Fediverse.