Do you dream, Selver?” “Seldom now,” Selver answered, obedient to the catechism, his scarred, feverish face bowed. “Awake?” “Awake.” “Do you dream well, Selver?” “Not well.” “Do you hold the dream in your hands?” “Yes.” “Do you weave and shape, direct and follow, start and cease at will?” “Sometimes, not always.” “Can you walk the road your dream goes?” “Sometimes. Sometimes I am afraid to.” “Who is not? It is not altogether bad with you, Selver.” “No, it is altogether bad,” Selver said, “there’s nothing good left,” and he began to shake.
