Visions of my other self, a Novella
My other self cries out in her crow voice, more wind in it than snarl… from somewhere, there, off to my left… he sits there in the clearing, in a grassy bowl at the bottom of the hill… he’s smoking, watching me… a tall hat of smoke rises around his head… where’s your brother, he asks me… he gets up from his rock chair… where’s your shining stone house I say… Maybe my brother is there I say… maybe your brother is there he laughs…
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