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Every breath fogs the glass encasing my lonely head. Ever since the sickness came, nobody has felt quite connected. Our gloves inhibit the electricity we might've once felt from touching a lover, and the bubbles block the sweet scent of grandma's peanut butter blossoms at Christmas. Not that anyone's eaten much other than fish since we moved to the bottom of the ocean. I'd like to meet the CDC genius who dreamt up underwater bunkers. Tonight I lay here, watching the moonlight gently dance on the surface, trying to remember simpler times, when all that separated us was a mask.

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