Chapter Twenty-Six ~ Prison Lane
A walk then, like a laugh, or one’s handwriting, becomes a signature, making our mark across space.
(Slow Motion: stories about walking, Andie Miller)
Today, Dad had another big talk with me about The Hill, the Diary and the List. How we’d all been telling each other stories. To help ourselves get better. Because sometimes we need to tell ourselves made up versions of what is until we are ready to accept ‘the plain truth’. I knew which one he meant. Plain ugly, he meant. That Thing was all stories, all true eventually, but never yet. Until eventually it was all lies, disguising the angles, hiding the fact that there was no plan, but that there will be, eventually. It was all about being sick, of everything. How everything wouldn’t get better, but we woul
