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[CA] Today I know that life is but a dream, For how else could a moment ages past Arise now on the surface of this stream Of being, sliding freely in its churn? Before, rash memories swirled up, eddying fast Against the current’s flow; now hours return To present tense unrippling, it would seem. Yet fiction glints off this which I might deem Pure fact. Forthwith, it blurs and slides away With shoreline forests slipping past the hull Of this stern oarsman’s boat, soon turning dull.