. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . where ImagInatIon comes to play

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

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Let me out, she cried. Set me free of this skin, coarse and dry as the days I've stood here among you. I don't belong here. I must see about walking, and then, perhaps I will see if my arms might carry me skyward to my sun and my moon. I do not breathe the same air as you. It was with these pleas that she left them, slowly shedding the paper that had covered her words for far too long.


photo: Francesca Woodman

3 comments:

Anthony Duce said...

Enjoyed. A plea made more often with age, I am sure.

norton said...

I feel a wonderful story in here. Makes me want more.

Marjolaine Hébert said...

more...yes; more.