I cry at night, I cry looking at the ceiling, at the overhead lights, I cry in the morning, in the shower, I cry looking into the refrigerator and getting into my bed. I cry myself awake in the middle of the night, and I cry and cry alone in my old bedroom, so that it seems like the insides of my stomach are touching, that I am one great vice clamp, closed tight. I don't know why in front of people I have been so seemingly composed. I don't want to eat, and I don't want to talk, and I don't want to cry anymore, but it is truly the one response I understand, the one I cling to ....

I am destined to be here for the rest of my time on earth without the people closest to me, the people with whom I had a perfect intimacy, a lifetime of threads sewn into me and into them, torn apart and gone.