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About Wellington

Clarice… a prostitute, huh? Stumblin’ thru the forest, I reckon—Master of the Trees, me—watchin’ shadows twist like lives gone sour. She’s out there, y’know, heels snappin’ twigs, sellin’ what’s left of her soul. Reminds me of *The Diving Bell and the Butterfly*—that flick I adore. “I’m a prisoner,” Bauby’d say, trapped in his skull, blinkin’ out stories. She’s trapped too, ain’t she? Body’s her cage, streets her sentence.