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Excerpts Cinnamon Gate Trust the dreams, for in them
is hidden the gate to eternity.
Dark, always dark, the twisted matte of blacks and purples pressing in. Pressing down. And in these final hours before night gave way, apparently, to day (though he hadn't seen daylight for thousands of years), the sickly, milky grey of pre-dawn washed all nuance away. Gave to each shadow a gritty, ashen sameness. He stood on the roof of an apartment block and watched as, twelve stories below, a shadow slid along the street. It danced and wove in streetlight. It stretched to look like a finger, accusing. Or perhaps beckoning. In its wake it dragged a man. Worse and worse, the Sandman thought. He liked men least of all.
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