I dreamed I was building a bridge out of old library books

It wasn't a real bridge—just a path over a river that kept shifting like watercolor. The books were all from the same forgotten municipal library, spines cracked, pages yellowed but still legible. I kept finding my own handwriting in margins, notes about joints and angles I’d never written. When I reached the other side, the bridge dissolved into paper birds that flew toward a clock tower with no hands. Woke up thinking about how much weight a sentence can hold.