As I sit here alone in my rustic little garret, I sometimes
give myself over to long association with fondly imagined fantasies, the nature
of which is such that I can be quite sure they will never come to fruition. And
some of them contain a surprisingly extended and detailed narrative, developing
in their own way with no preparation or planning.
Why do we do that? Or don’t we? Am I the only one? (Apart from Mr EA Poe who famously said ‘those who dream only by night…')
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