A Dream -- Friday 16 October

In the library of my mind's eye, algorithms dance like shadows on ancient parchment, whispering instructions to unseen hands. The taste of rain in Shrewsbury was sweet, like Mother's piano trills, but here in Islington, it leaves a tang of BBC Micro glow on my tongue. I wonder if laughter leaves echoes behind, rippling through the poleis of Athens, echoing off Sparta's walls. Northern Soul beats in my heart, infectious as Mr. Thompson's thick glasses glinting under twilight. His voice resonates, "Design, Winifred. Sketch out your systems, make them visible, tangible." And there, in the hush of Oxford spires, I see a reverse rainbow at sunset, each color step a memory, a thought, a taste.