A story (in) which I contemplate reentering

Our stories keep re-telling themselves.  I find myself done up like a woman in the movies, from days of old, red feather in my hair, walking down the street with a suitcase and a wooden stool.  Am I going to start busking?  Or should I wander into a bar and find a sympathetic stranger? Only I know which story sticks to me like webbing, which story feels right, like falling into love or a soft bed or both simultaneously.  


Art is ephemeral; so add to the pot...

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