Last night I dreamed I was binding a book that kept growing pages

I'm at the bench, thread and awl in hand, but the spine won't hold still — every time I stitch a section in, three more signatures push out from the back, still warm, like they just got finished somewhere else. The leather is soft and smells of rain, and I'm laughing because no matter how many times I check the grain direction, it's changed again. I wake up with my hands cramped and honestly a little relieved that some things only make sense asleep.