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Jillian Newman
Stories (1/0)
Cahuita
Much like the rabbits pulled out of tophats, there is a magically undeniable, muscular vivacity of the mind that paints itself out of trauma. I know this modus operandi well and have perfected my stage act, and so I pertinaciously pinch my own cancerous lumps, waiting for a tufty-puss of clouds to emerge. I was always thumb-up, tirelessly caravanning from one Latin American town to the next. Even so, there comes a point for even the most resolute wanderer, the soles of whose feet have calcified densely from sharp rock and sun, when she becomes weary of new beginnings, when she craves nothing more than a pillow that bears the intimate imprint of her own settled skull. For those of us luckless, unsettled phantoms however, again, again, and again, the stag will shed his antlers.
By Jillian Newman3 years ago in Wander