Tongueless Chicago, Illinois
First a shiver, than a rustle of leaves. I smell wormwood and ash and am immediately reminded of that place- the one I
worked so hard to leave behind. I stagger backward, stumbling on the roots, intoxicated with the smell.
And then I see you.
I am at once filled with sound and absolutely quiet. Just as it should be- the violent sound of the desperate; the utterance of the toungeless.
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