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  • An inverted world, even gloomier than the one you stumble through: Over locks of sleep drudge vast cargoes of dream, glowing faintly. The ferrymen wait, their blind eyes turned inward to survey the restless loads, that shift and bleat softly in the night. You reach out, singling out the vision you’d love best, the one you feel might nurture, console you from a bleak life. But you are denied a choice; the ferrymen will defend their wares as the boats go up and down – and away – from the spewing locks, finally free to float a little further. Out of reach.
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