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A long, long time ago in a land where night was always day and day always night and where the clocks ticked anti-clockwise there was once an old blind man who collected all the spare daydreams others no longer had any use for. He kept them in a stovepipe top hat bequeathed to him by a dying failed magician turned useless impresario upon what was to become the poor chaps deathbed.

As any collector worth his stuff would do he would wait until the titfer was full to the brim whereupon he would sort out the meritorious daydreams from the dull or flighty ones. It was then and only then, providing there was a sufficiency of imaginations, he would leave the sanctuary of his clifftop cottage and follow the sound of the cooing wood pigeons into the nearby fishing village. There he would exchange them for clothing, shoes, socks, cutlery…

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