I had my first Jefferson dream about two months ago. I was sitting, writing, at a cherry desk. The room was dim and I couldn’t see the entire space, but I could feel that it was small. On one dark wall was a bookshelf. A rug was on the wide planked floor. And in the corner of the room, eyes fixed on the pages of a book, was a boy. He was sitting with one leg under him and the other bent at his chest, absent-mindedly gnawing on his finger while the bulk of his attention was absorbed by whatever words were on the pages.
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