A dreaming man now, I have developed a fresh gratitude for dawn. At dawn, the memory of the island recedes, and as the daylight rises, I’m convinced that when my time comes, the ones on the island will let me pass. I’ve spoken for them, after all, have told their story, sang their song. I owe them no more. They will let me pass. I am sure of it. Then comes the night, and the fog reaches out with the wind blowing hard behind it, and I am no longer so sure. This is the rhythm of my life. The island comes and goes, night becomes day, dreams and memories change hands. Familiar faces become
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