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the magic of night dies every dawn. the sunlight washing away the infinite possibilities of dreamtime.

all the bad choices, every little thing that was given over to fear returns anew in the unforgiving light.

in a perfect world, Mickey never spoke nor sang nor did he captain a steamboat.

in the perfect world the songbirds sing to the rising son their song of freedom. it is still free as the night. not owned by the day nor owned by anything in between.

they remind us that some things survive dreamtime. pieces that can never be crushed or silenced by the Meanies and Warlocks who duel by law and black magicians who conjure into being the slavery of day.

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