Tuesday, November 21

I just don't think I'll ever get over you.

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?

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