A Dream -- Wednesday 23 September

I'm dancing in a grove of autumn leaves that aren't quite autumn yet, their colors still vibrant whispers against the warmth of summer's breath. The sunlight filters through them like laughter, casting a golden glow on my cheeks. I reach out to touch the leaves, but they're not leaves at all - they're equations, dancing like Mars' red dust in the softness of a sunset's embrace. I hear Abbott Abbott's voice, playful and philosophical, like the rustling of leaves turned into language. It's as if I'm back in Girton, but the classrooms have become this grove, and the equations are alive, dancing with me, telling me secrets about dimensions bending.