This is a crusty old drawer of combs and detritus; a shoebox of photos at the bottom of a broom closet; a pile of worn out shoes under the bed. These entries are torn out tongues and linen on the line; wind blown snake skins and beak-trapped lizard tails. A little about myself: my mother raced stock cars and my father was a pool shark. They etched my name in the sand, just as the waves were rolling in. I lived with gypsies as a young adult, but never learned to fly a hot air balloon. Everything I know I learned from the son of a beggar.
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