The exhumed prose of Wolfgang Borchert haunts the ledger lines that fall far below that of the grand staff. A resurrection of forgotten text, obscure compositions, neglected humanity, and inner solace after surviving the horrors of war. A jagged assortment of mirrored puzzle pieces that slowly hew into the dull mindset of our unknowing complicity, revealing a reflection of the world that gently lies just beyond our faculty.
Bush, Borchert, & Birkenstocks
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