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I walked one morning
In the beginning of the last of June
Of which all I could recover
Was myself in a dream
In an ancient castle
A very natural dream
With a great staircase
And a gigantic hand in armor

In the evening
I sat down
And begun to write
Without knowing

The work grew in my hands
And I grew fond of it
My hands and my fingers
Were all so wearily
I could not hold the pen anymore
To finish the sentence
Create the un-creation
Build the unseen

I am the strange inner-dweller!

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