Unicorn i’ll get over it i just need to be dramatic first shirt, hoodie, tank top
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By June she was bored and lonely. She wandered through the forest, but never very far. Unicorn i’ll get over it i just need to be dramatic first shirt. The summer woods were dense and busy, not like the quiet graveyard feel of winter. Nothing slept for very long; everything was emerging from cocoons, winging about, buzzing, multiplying, having litters, gaining weight. Bear cubs splashed in the river. Chicks screamed for worms. She longed for the stillness of winter, the long slumber, the bare sky, the bone-on-bone sound of bull elk knocking their antlers against trees.
Unicorn i’ll get over it i just need to be dramatic first shirt
In September the big-game hunters came. Each client wanted something different: elk, antelope, a bull moose, a doe. Unicorn i’ll get over it i just need to be dramatic first shirt. They wanted to see grizzlies, track a wolverine, shoot sandhill cranes. They wanted the heads of seven-by-seven royal bulls for their dens. Every few days he came home smelling of blood, with stories of stupid clients, of the Texan who sat, wheezing, too out of shape to get to the top of a hill for his shot. A bloodthirsty New Yorker claimed he wanted only to photograph black bears; then he pulled a pistol from his boot and fired wildly at two cubs and their mother. Nightly she scrubbed blood out of the hunter’s coveralls, watched it fade from rust to red to rose in a basin filled with river water.
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She began to sleep, taking long afternoon naps, three hours or more. Sleep, she learned, was a skill like any other, like getting sawed in half and reassembled, or like divining visions from a dead robin. She taught herself to sleep despite heat, despite noise. Insects flung themselves at the screens, hornets sped down the chimney, the sun angled hot and urgent through the southern windows; still she slept. When he came home each autumn night, exhausted, forearms stained with blood, she was hours into sleep. Outside, the wind was already stripping leaves from the cottonwoods—too soon, he thought. He’d take her sleeping hand. Both of them lived in the grip of forces they had no control over—the October wind, the revolutions of the earth.