Standing before the mute petroglyphs, I found myself conjuring stories about what lay behind each rendering.
You really have to swim down into yourself when you’re writing, which is why people confuse it all with mental illness.
A schmaltzy, eerily familiar tune that loops along, accordions swelling and shrinking, high-heeled, lipsticked women la-la-la-la-la-la-ing.
I’m afraid of contributing to the stigma of mental illness by telling this story.
We wanted to make a good impression. Maybe even to launch a conversation.
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