As time slipped away, and her years become greater, she worried tirelessly of slipping from her moorings. Of losing the grasp of something sure, of sliding down that slope of novels and fantasy and memories. She lashed more and more anchors to herself to hang on, in hopes of clinging to a thread of reality.
8×10, framed in a glass front shaowbox. Hand cut archival paper. The shelf can sit on it’s easel back or hang on the wall.
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