“I am a book. Sheaves pressed from the pulp of oaks and pines a natural sawdust made dingy from purses, dusty from shelves. Steamy and anxious, abused and misused, kissed and cried over, smeared, yellowed, and torn, loved, hated, scorned.… — Lise McClendon Copy Share Image
“Tristan the child had been gone for a long time. He had gone where children go, slipped away into manhood as if he’d never… — Lise McClendon Copy Share Image
“Possibility. Was that all that it took to feel alive? Could it be that it wasn’t getting the thing you desire itself but the… — Lise McClendon Copy Share Image
“I am a book. Sheaves pressed from the pulp of oaks and pines a natural sawdust made dingy from purses, dusty from shelves. Steamy… — Lise McClendon Copy Share Image
