my great uncle lost his leg in 1917 sometime just before the new year. a german shell and a handful of shrapnel took it from him is what i've been told. poof and it was gone (like stardust in space) and millions of his atoms settled between the grains of earth and mud and snow. man to mist in a fraction of a second and i find beauty in our bodies nothingness. max said it was a boys right to become nostalgic between drinks and all my letters form words like wine and beer and honey lips. sometimes these words seem flat and i wish i could place them into your dreams just the way i'd like but so many of my thoughts are impossible to say due to their insignificance or significance or simplicity or such and such. like how sometimes raspberry jam brings to mind thoughts which hurt my heart and how impossible it is to push someone else's kiss out of its place. i fear that nostalgia will make these words one big ugly mess sooner or later or at this very moment, perhaps.

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