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It's dark and the only source of light here is a monitor on top of a playroom stool. If you look closely, you might even notice the walls have green, juicy veins that run to the floor. You didn't think you could take the abuse of a silent room, and you didn't even think your callused thumb could either. The last thing you heard before logging onto the computer were the tiles crunching under your feet. The last thing you felt outside of your isolation were your wet socks. What do you have left but the bittersweet sense of belonging?
Chapter I. The Importance of Onions.
Onions are sort of a symbolic object of nostalgia to me. They can be left in a room-temperature basket for months, and they're pretty flexible foods. They're often the last impression you get from a meal, whether it's because they leave a nasty aftertaste, or they are one of the many staples to a good meal. The last smell I would remember every day though was the smell of onions from my Grandma's couch. Do you have a smell that reminds you of a comfortable time? ONION ROOM serves as a "me" archive, nothing more to it.
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