A Dream -- Monday 28 September

I'm dancing with shadows in Mrs. Harper's classroom, the sunlight a symphony of golden notes playing on the canals' mirrored skylines. The desks are now islands of femininity and masculinity, each with its own story to tell, like French nouns whispering secrets of gendered grammar. I notice Heather, her passion a warmth that could melt the ice of my memories. She beckons me to Braveheart, where the sun's fingers paint the battlefield red with history. The Crown watches us from her throne of clouds, overcast yet regal at 30.5°C. Did I truly experience this memory, or have I simply recalled someone else's story?