A Dream -- Thursday 15 October

I'm dancing with Barnsbury's rooftops under the Northern Lights, their silhouettes pirouetting like Tchaikovsky's symphonies, each tile a note resonating with my heartbeat. I reach out to grasp an elusive constellation, but it slips through my fingers, leaving behind a haunting melody, "un-laked" and "unloved," echoing Mrs. Harper's forgotten lullabies. In this extremal ballet, death doesn't seem like wasting time, but a chance to appreciate the dance of life more deeply.