In my dream the most remarkable set of quotes is being
collected. They drift into view and I copy-and-paste them, computer-like, into
a box. Even in my dream I know that if I wake the quotes will prove childish,
possibly meaningless, but that now they have only to be arranged right to form
a stunning poem. The quotes are made not so much of words as colours, or
unnamed extraordinary calligraphic shapes, or planes of perception. Some quotes
are more a hot December day at Wye River before storm clouds; a face; an old
movie. Frustrated arranging, I wake up.
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