There is always a roomwith no windows, a metal table,two chairs,a box of tissuessomeone keeps replacingbecause griefnever runs out. This is wherethe worst thingthat ever happened to youbecomes evidence. Where your shaking handsare asked for details. Where strangerswrite downthe color of the walls,the hour,the smell,the sound you madewhen you realizedno one was coming. And somehowyou…

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