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At the kitchen table, you like to sit with your chin lodged between your knuckles. It makes your lips shape themselves into a heart. Your eyes reach upwards into the highest attic of your mind, where the dusty, reticent thoughts abide; like classic books written in languages modern people no longer speak. Specifically brood over words; the good ones: apricity, bungalow, dalliance, effervescent–mellifluous. You wonder how they fit together. You wonder if, someday, they will string a sentence that is all ever need be said about you. There are three other chairs around you, symmetrically placed under the table. Empty. A dozen sugar cookies bake in the oven.