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I lie in bed sick in the middle of vacation, in the middle of Dakota, in the middle of Family.

Everything hurts, even my ears, from the happy noise in the kitchen.

I listen with my pain filled ears and pick out each voice. Kleinschmidt brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, wives and lovers.

I record each laugh in my head and picture the person and think how much I love them.



And my mind passes over all the years. All the well-spent, ill-spent years. I try to sort out what is important, knowing too well that time marches on.

And my heart aches, and my head hurts and I write on paper blurred by tears.

Dakota Flu.



LCK May, 2000

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