Nino Ricci dreamed that there was a strange man living in the clouds above Toronto. He was short, with thin-rimmed spectacles and an elaborately curled moustache. It was cold up there and windy at night; his only shelter was a small tent pitched near the fluffy white edge. Standing just outside it, you could see all the way to the horizon, past the miniature twinkling of skyscrapers, highways and roads.
“I’ve been making trips down there for years!” The man was shouting over the stiff wind, as he pulled a pair of scissors out of his suit pocket. “I’ve collected them all: books, letters, pamphlets, poems, even shopping lists and love notes. These clouds are stuffed full of them!”
And with one quick, dizzying motion, the man leaned out over the side and drew his scissors across the cotton, slicing it open. Flurries of paper spilled out of the wound, were caught up by the wind and swept down toward the sleeping city.
In the morning, tiny people would come out of their homes armed with shovels and snow-blowers and brooms, eager to dig themselves out from beneath the fresh snow.
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