his special vacation hat

update: he can't stand it, my misery, the cold cavern in me where there's too much empty sad space now, like an echo chamber in my gut. I say, grief has stages. He says, fuck that. He sells his most valuable possessions and books two flights to the soonest warm spot he can find like it or not. when I think of anything except what's right in front of me, I just want to keen. my body is busted to shit, my mind is boggy, my urge to keen constant. but. He's right. as all I am actively doing is "healing", waiting out the bleeding and the coughing and the shakes and aches, the stunning ouch of it all, I can do that in the sun as well as in the freezing cold eh? I am being taken to the shore, like I'm Virginia Woolf or some shit.

(I don't want to listen to music anymore.)