Somewhere outside Peru, I have a vision of the llama.
“Gold is the sweat of the sun and Silver is the tears of the moon,” he says.
And vanishes.
I kneel down, digging through the dirt with my hands.
I pick out a small silver and gold llama, exquisitely crafted by the Inca many centuries ago.
It is beautiful. It is magnificent.
It is worth a fortune.
Laughing in the heat, this is no mirage, no delusion.
I wipe my sweating brow with my handkerchief, and look…
The cloth is covered with gold.
I rise from the ground, burning… burning…
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“I just wish she would use my real name when she checks us into our hotels, but she thinks it is funny.”
“Well there is really no harm is there?”
“The really problem is not that those people out there think they’re here for someone else, it is that she thinks that they are here for her. When she goes down there to sign autographs they won’t even know who she is. And she gets pissed, and that never ends well for anyone.”
“I don’t get it. What name does Ms. Parton use”
“She sign’s me in as Dolly’s Llama.”