Thousand: Three Hundred Twenty-Two

to a palette of pigments, stirring a little black together with much white, then dabbing at the stone to fix the fisher gnome’s beard. Butternut, a name she chose from among the dishes served in the art school cafeteria, nibbles on the tip of the brush handle and thinks about the path her life has taken. A path rubbled with stone like the one to which she applies colors, serving up a simulacrum of life. Some life. Not hers. Her life is concrete, too concrete to be pumiced down to a picture. Broken and dusty and shot through with disobedient