mine a defrocked bride with a balding skull and Lucille’s a filthy and eyeless Rose Red. Long after we knew we were too old for dolls, we played out intricate, urgent dramas of entrapment and miraculous escape. When the evenings came they were chill because the mountains cast such long shadows over the land and over the lake.
Hereditary trauma. Dolls made effigies, perhaps foreshadowing some coming nonsense
