Gentle reader,
On mornings such as these – when the light has that very particular and indescribable quality and extends itself out in flat, deliberate sheets, rigid and brittle, broken in places by branches, power poles and twisting leaves and dispersed into silent, dappled shards – I think to myself that perhaps it would not be such a foolish thing to believe in magic after all and maybe I ought not go to work but instead search for an entrance to Oz, or Narnia or Wonderland or somewhere entirely new.
Do you ever have mornings like that?
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