Beauty like the scar on my arm. Apples, knives. The prom. Eaten up. A dozen roses in the stall. A faraway, fixed look in the eye. Poison darts. What you get when you get what you want. When you take it. No scene, no pulling the cord from the amp, no swizzling bass line or feedback buzz. Just the power to make wishes come true. To live a story so that you might tell it for the rest of your life. To find out years later that you’ve lost interest in stories. A story becomes a secret by omission. Who was she? I love her but I am not her.
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Hanna is collecting answers (in one line; I cheated in the above) to these questions:
Where is beauty most visible?
How will you begin?
Please send her a line at hanna at switchbackbooks dot com!
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