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[ACCESS RESTRICTED TO THE UNIVERSITY OF MISSOURI--COLUMBIA AT REQUEST OF AUTHOR.] I often find myself staring at the light along the wall of my apartment. I'm at my kitchen table when it appears from nowhere. I stare at the light as it shifts and then I look away. A few seconds pass, then minutes pass, and I'm fixated on this feeling. There's a presence I cannot explain, but feel in the air. I look to the ground, my rug is bent and folded over. It looks sad and I look at the empty chair in front of me. The bands of light from my window appear again. The rooms I create are considered empty, but inside them is an intangible presence. A lost loved one never goes away. I see objects, spaces, and phenomena like the light coming through my window reminding me of them. Every day I live and those people I've lost are hidden in the back of my mind. When I recognize this absence, I acknowledge I am inhabiting a space without them. I sit at my kitchen table every day, and the light reminds me I'm sitting there without her. This feeling creates a sensitivity to space. I become aware of the smallest of details acknowledging the invisible presence. The empty spaces I inhabit become full as I search for a lingering aura that can only meet me half way.
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