The Woodsman’s Wench: When James Met Hillary

She fell from the sky. No. Perhaps she lingered. Like a stale fart. Like the heavy groan of bagpipes wafting from the Dover shores to Dunkirk. Freedom’s passage. Currents and crosswinds. The climate. F—k. What I’m trying to say is, she didn’t fall all at once. The normal way. She wouldn’t have survived. (And looked …