Un-peopled in a room where people sit in a circle behind tables, where sounds are exchanged gently from hand-to-hand, I sit with no hands to speak of, tapping my foot and touching my knees, as if no one can see. the taste of food is strange with metal, and I miss you within the hour. everyone is mimicking the features of your face, as my eyes reconstruct them somehow into familiarity that is as empty as a basement. I came to worship such silence with deafening reverence and insatiable climate— a city constructed from memory. a place of no people.“Amber Knox”

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