how many times have I wasted away under the weight of a heartache and a crying headache while reading these novels for comfort? too many to count. I went upstairs to grab the next one, going in order, trying to do anything. it's where he slept last, we sadly laughed that this place isn't sturdy enough anywhere to hang yourself in here, it still smells like him, I just laid there a long time staring at the row of books coincidentally lined up right where his head last was on a noninstitutional pillow. thought: I need to get rid of the guns

2 years later - 👆 the trail of stories has exploded to track down, he's inching toward criminality-ish in that wording, and there's an neh grant is at the bottom of the cup 

"He was his island, he was me, he was his cats."