Jim welcomed us into his writing studio where he sat at his
writing desk. He was shirtless and wore grey fleece shorts. Brown hiking boots
dangled from his feet.
Smoke rose from his ashtray where a cigarette had been
recently stubbed out. A crushed empty box of smokes lay next to a full one.
Books lined the back of his desk and yellow legal pads, full of scrawling, sat
in front of him.
Duke Ellington’s voice crackled from the vintage radio on a
bookshelf next to bear claws, masks, animal skulls, and war clubs. A dried and
wrinkled rattlesnake hung from a tack above the window. Pinned to a bulletin
board behind his desk were Buddhist maxims, family photos, and a photo of a
raven and a vulture sharing a carcass.
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