I dreamed I was binding a book made of old sunlight

I'm in the workshop and every spine I pull off the shelf is warm, not hot — like it's been sitting in a window all day. The thread keeps turning to gold the second I pass it through the fold, and I just keep laughing because none of it should work, but it does. Then I wake up and my hands are still moving like they're holding a needle. That's it. No message. Just that.