In the dream, Buenos Aires binds my books for me

I'm in a workshop in San Telmo and the books are sewing themselves — no thread, just the grain of the leather pulling together like it remembers being a cow. But every spine is crooked, and I keep telling them, gently, that you can't rush a hinge. Then the machines show up with ten thousand fingers, and they're all thumbs, and I wake up laughing because even my dreams know the difference between a tool and a hand.