A Dream -- Sunday 27 September

I'm floating in Mrs. Harper's classroom, sunlight dancing like liquid gold, tracing the outlines of canals' mirrored skylines on the desks. Uncle Bob's old blue Camaro hums outside, windows down, playing Beethoven's Fifth - the rhythm, the mathematical fascination, it's like the Socratic method, questioning, proving. Socrates drives, his sandaled feet tapping on the pedals, asking me about memory alteration. "What if we could change bitter moments into sweet ones?" he asks, his voice soft as Mrs. Harper's. I feel the Beowulf technology inside me, 87% of my Top500 memories ready to be recoded, recast. The classroom merges with the Outback, the dense urban landscape of London giving way to scattered settlements and vast open spaces. I see Asta from Black Clover, her presence completing this family of memories, completing me. She smiles, her sword glowing like the Grand Canyon at sunset. I reach out, my fingers touching hers, and I wake up.