no one could possibly understand how this feels , so it isolates me from all others (even more) , there is no metaphor , nothing "like" losing a child and not losing one also in one fell and my being born into a thickened layer of motherworry air that I breathe like ash , and that no one notices because we are all breathing a worryash , terror aerosolized, my strangegrief asthma an underlying condition , lucky nobody has gotten sick or died, my asthma a privilege around which I concentrate to inhale and exhale in a measured rythme of sad panic 

"My Venus is damaged, or in exile, that’s what you say of a Planet that can’t be found in the sign where it should be." Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of The Dead, Olga Tokarczuk