From Mark Slouka's novel, The Visible World...
And I remember knowing that the dream was true and yet realizing, in some half-formed way, that men rarely had the courage or the cruelty of their dreams and that this was good because life was lived among many kind of things, all of them pushing for space, for air, all of them equally true: a wilderness of love and despair, laughter and rage, heroism and pain, while dreams, dreams were a haunted parkland - a stately oak, a bench, a fountain gushing blood.
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