He is old, balding and bespectacled. A Freudian slip of a man in a sweater vest sitting across from me. “I’m going to show you some white cards with black ink blots,” he says, “and I want you to tell … Continue reading →
Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
All original material on this site © Maggie C, What Rhymes with Stanza, 2015-2019