TODAY(Written on August 30th, 2025, a sabbath evening), somewhere between exhaustion and the sweetness of evening sleep, dream stories happen. I am trying to think on who really does the stitching of some stories. Of dream stories. I can't quite tell but how I wish it was heaven doing the stitching or the artist HIMSELF(GOD). Not for all stories, but for stories like the one I am about to throw here. It was around 4 p.m. today when I drifted into one of those deep day-sleeps. I remember lying on my bed, my phone just an arm’s reach away, its soft black screen reflecting a faint silhouette of me(just super plainly). The curtain was swaying lazily in the evening wind. My desk was still crowded with reminders of schoolwork. Papers and books scattered, a pen lying diagonally across an unfinished page of Neuroscience notes, and my bag leaning tiredly against my desk. I could hear it say, "What a heavy week I have ever endured." My whole body was weary after a week...