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To My Granted Wishes
We stare at the expensive china while listening to the music of our silverware clattering on our plates. The most detail-oriented caterers that I could find had prepared the food. As we chew it, it’s hard not to look up. Look at the lavishly decorated mansion we inhabit. Look at the expression on one another’s faces.
Because there isn’t any silverware. Our forks don’t jab at any food. We chew nothing but our own saliva and the air of the house we inhabit. Though there is no house.
No we.
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