I am reading a book lent to me by a friend and the book is frought with
magic and a formal loneliness yet leads ever on into a depth of layers
which one comes to suddenly without previous awareness. Much like waking
to find oneself in a dream and following a path into a terraced valley of
shadowed gardens, one leading to the next but all distinctly alike yet
unlike each other. Apparently, it has also tainted my brain with its own
queer enchantment of prose, which I find myself unwilling to break at the

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