In my dream, I came across a tree, perched atop Hollow Hill outside of town. Each of the leaves was brittle brown parchment, inscribed with printed letters. The long “s” and faded sepia ink were like something out of Shakespeare.

A blast of cool air swept by, and a handful of the papery leaves. I reached out, took one, and with difficulty began to read what was inscribed on its surface. It was a hand at once centuries old and just a few months.

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