And another low day full of Schumann and desperate laughing at demons. I'm not sure why I've been so moody, here. It is hard to find any happy medium.
I went to a church today that I'd not been in before. Or maybe I had--it was familiar but I don't think I'd ever been there. In it there is a sculpture of my sleeping, dying, wounded and weary-minded brother.
Those phrases sound stupid, sound awkward, sound sallow and shallow and as if I was trying to infuse them with some meaning they chemically cannot carry. I don't mean them that way.
He looked so cold in the marble and so alone behind the glass. What if he had been my son?