Born in a tiny cold shack in the woods, I raised myself, tending the fire and the soup pot with help from the resident wolves, ravens and mice. At age five, I gave birth to a wet furry version of myself, who said, "Don't walk on the thin ice," then disappeared into the fireplace, unburned by the flames. Years of this existence taught us to love each other. We moved to the city where we live in a cast-iron building looking over the taxicabs, prostitutes and drug dealers who call us The Trinity. We've never seen slavery or the Clinique counter at the department store, so I guess our existence is pretty circumscribed. We search the Internet to broaden ourselves.

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