A Dream -- Monday 21 September

I'm dancing on lily pads, each step a whisper of secrets on Saturn's Titan, where rivers of methane flow like Earl Grey into teacups. Virginia Woolf watches from her bed, migraine-bound yet thrilled by this ballet of encryption, data processing in a crowded room while we pirouette, trusting as we trust the weather. Momma laughs, her reflection hiding behind hair, mirroring the girl I once was, wondering about "le" and "la". Her laughter echoes through Islington's secret gardens, where supermassive black holes power cosmic furnaces of lilies dancing on their pads.