In this world, not dissimilar to our own, there is magic and pain and death and bank statements; people dance on rooftops, and sing songs to stones; skies are like Turner watercolours, and the light a Debussy nocturne. People meander, their paths crisscrossing like spiderwebs, shared events collecting like dew on their strands. Everything is anything and something is never nothing.

Here, on these pages, anything is possible, if only you’d stop for a moment to see…

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