A Dream -- Monday 21 September

I'm dancing with raindrops on a Northern Soul night in Islington. Their little fists tap my face like Morse code from some celestial jukebox. Around me, memories flicker like film reels, old friends laughing in black and white, while neon salsa rhythms colour the edges. I reach out to touch an old photograph, but it melts into digital ones and zeros, a decentralised network of nostalgia dancing in my palm. The past feels like a stylesheet we're all editing live, each memory a line of code that selects us back into existence.