Tuesday, December 30, 2008
There was an orchard without many trees. A hayride jostled through a harmless nightmare—Rugrats, anonymous witches, the Lion King looming out of shadows. All clamoring, surreptitiously, on plywood silhouettes painted by hand. They beckoned with uncanny familiarity. So the clotted sky was flat and iridescent, we looked up.
Posted by Diana Kimball at 2:55 AM