Tim  Goldsmith

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That night sleep was like an enemy ; dreams, a winged avenging fish, swam rising and diving until light, drawing towards daybreak, opened his eyes. Hurriedly butloning his breeches, he crept down through the quiet house and out the kitchen door. Above, the moon paled like a stone receding below water, tangled morning colour rushed up the sky, trembled there in pastel uncertainty.
Other Voices, Other Rooms
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