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		<title>AndrewTortora | WritersCafe.org</title>
		<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/AndrewTortora</link>
		<description>The original writings of author AndrewTortora</description>
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		<copyright>Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org</copyright>
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			<title>The Magic Wishing Well</title>
			<description>&amp;nbsp;Want to know a secret?Promise not to tell?I found a magic wishing well.&amp;nbsp;I&amp;rsquo;m not sure if it were forged by heaven or hell,But when I&amp;rsquo;m near it I feel my heart swellWith a sentiment a 1,000 times greater than the most jubilant of men could comprehend.&amp;nbsp;Sinc..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewTortora/303012/</link>
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			<title>Me Vis-a-vis Me</title>
			<description>&amp;nbsp;Today I was six people.All relative to different timesAnd different faces, and thoughThe places may have changed theSmells all stayed the same.&amp;nbsp;The ineradicable scent of burntMarijuana and manufacturedTobacco resting deep within myClothes and nestled in your hair;Ove..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewTortora/245140/</link>
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			<title>Sheepskin Democracy</title>
			<description>Dear Public Servants,&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;Sheep follow their masters evenAfter their wool has been stolen,But you cannot keep me from strayingThan coming back to steal your flockAll together.&amp;nbsp;These self-righteous undemocraticallyAppointed men know only their ownSkewed sense of morali..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewTortora/236889/</link>
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			<title>Imaginary King</title>
			<description>&amp;nbsp;The child walks so gracefullyAlong the jagged edge. They doNot see I bear witness to thisMemory lodged inside theirHead.&amp;nbsp;High up on the rocks I smokeMyself closer to death. AnotherWasted six dollars on a habit I&amp;rsquo;veGrown to detest.&amp;nbsp;I imagine myself a king..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewTortora/231102/</link>
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			<title>False Christ</title>
			<description>&amp;nbsp;Each morning I am born inThe east, and each night IShall die in the West.&amp;nbsp;Adorned with fine silkRobes I&amp;rsquo;ll watch youToil from my throne.&amp;nbsp;Call me Andrew &amp;ldquo;Christ&amp;rdquo;And worship at my feet.For I am the true kingOf kings; the one spokenOf in ancie..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AndrewTortora/220622/</link>
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