ewinkowski
Chaos theory. It was how she might describe the twenty-fifth year of her life. Misguided, misdirected, aimless. A wanderer. If only she knew then how good she had it.
Mythological wanderings through the ancient countryside. The secrets were hidden in stone. Inside the temple were the keys that would unlock the myth, make it real, and cast our wanderer beyond the reach of home.
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Carving out the wood with a knife, whittling down the figurine of the old sailor, the curls of white pine falling to the floor of a dusty old garage.
Not again, velvet appears, mocking me with its soft and cushy sound, its loft, its luxurious canvas.
Velvet Elvis paintings sold in a parking lot outside a Wisconsin gas station, a truck full of summer corn on the other corner.
The white shore went on and on, and I knew further ahead, in the reeds, further inland, I would find the petroglyphs, the cool water running down the sacred rocks.