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Was it this thin before,
When I raced through to the end
In a single breath?
Did I guess motivation
Where none is given,
None implied?
Was the prose this flat
Or was I hardly rounded myself,
A child raised on early TV?
Did Dorothy breathe, or was the land
Of Oz as flat as Kansas, air as thin,
Its conversations always this gray?
Did I root for the witch,
The flying monkeys,
Or does that come later,
After puberty, and into old age
Where all lines are blurred?
Childhood’s assumptions
Have lost their golden shine,
Fog obscures corruptions,
And we all need a curtain
To hide behind.