Sand is never quite comfortable. I guess that the parts can't make the whole, so I'll crash into the waves that roll into the shore. Please keep this behind the locked door. This tribal dance is just a bit too strange. How odd we all feel when suddenly we change, and we become only shells of our former selves when we dig our former selves out of our shelves. So I hope that your head isn't too fucked. I guess that I'm the one with all the luck, because I hear suburban real estate is all the rage these days. Damages done in your violent craze. Your disgust kept inside a plastic bag. The fire of the vine has left its tag, and the rabbits in the wardrobe have the problems that they should. Scarred memories of chairs that are cursed not to feel good. In time, I'll accept that I am me, whoever that could be. Polka dots led me to bliss. I guess that's what I had missed. So I hope your mind is still. Void the thoughts that make you ill, and the things we've kept inside, and all those that you've denied.





Andrew Winzenburg Mankato, Minnesota

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