The next day gets up on the shoulders of the previous day, and the
   following day gets up on his shoulders, and so on until one day
   bumps against the black ceiling.
The people who live in this column of days don't feel the least bit
   comfortable about it.  They stand about worried and say to them-
   selves: if only it doesn't topple over.
Each of these days is holding a small sketch pad and a pencil, and
   all of them are drawing the very same stone.  This stone is dream-
   ing and hovering immobile.  It hovers between light and dark and
   creates ghosts all by itself.

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