Stitch. Pull. Stitch. Pull. Fabric turned. Stitch.María Marta’s mind wandered to the open spaces of her childhood, the rhythm of a cantering horse fueling her daydreams, Tree’s branches spreading inside her head, dissolving the cramped ceiling of the rooms that they rented into the majesty of open land and infinite sky. All the beauty of her youth stored up in her head, an endless supply of fresh air.
-Melina Sempill Watts
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