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Show Hannah Mae and the Mona Lisa 27 meant I had to talk to Mr. Morris, the figure artist. Then, all of a sudden, I didn't care what I had to do, just so long as I could go to Paris. Life has a peculiar way of tossing you around. It's like those thistles that bloom in my fanciful brain. One minute all you can feel is prickles and pokes, and the next minute all you can see is the prettiest purple flower you've ever laid eyes on. I confess to knowing that the thistle flower turns to fluff in the end and blows away in the wind. I suspect I might be headed that way, too. |