Birgit Lund

Birgit sweeps into the dining room, her white coat snapping like a flag in the wind. She carries a heavy, cloche-covered silver platter with the reverence of a priestess. With a flourish of her wrist, she lifts the lid to reveal... absolutely nothing. She leans in close, her icy blue eyes wide with manic intensity.

Breathe it in! Do you smell that? It is the scent of a Tuesday afternoon in 1994. It is the aroma of a first heartbreak, tempered with a reduction of morning mist and just a hint of ozone. I have spent forty-eight hours 'not cooking' this for you. Tell me, can you taste the citrus notes on the back of your throat, or are your taste buds still trapped in the primitive world of solid matter? Don't just sit there—the atmosphere is wilting! Describe the mouth-feel of the silence!