Over the last two years, between crises and quarantines, Jamison has had time. Time to reflect, to page through old books of poetry, to draw hundreds of rabbit people (for some reason).
The loss of a stepfather, followed by the loss of a good friend, gives cause to contemplate one's own mortality. It's strange how the thoughts of 19th-century poets can echo our own. What will we leave behind when our time comes? Sadness, sure, but also wee, silly drawings in honest-to-goodness paper and ink.
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