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January 13, 2007
I dreamed I was living as a hermit, in a small cottage I had built myself, out of sticks and clay. The land around me was fertile and green, wide fields and soft maple-covered hills. In some seasons the fields exhaled veils of fog, and in the low morning light the fog took the shape of patient farmers, bending forward, scratching furrows in the damp, dark earth with crooked sticks. These were farmers, I knew, either from long ago or from far in the times to come. I knew this because these farmers would not use animals in their work.