Tears fall like little mini waterfalls, pooling into streams as you tuck your face into the crook of my neck. Body shakes with empty hopelessness. I know this grief will come to pass but right now it feels like it never will. Far gone are the Neverland Peter Pan fantasies, "second star to the right and on 'til morning". Back when storybooks and 1994 computers could be enough to buoy and carry us through the turbulent tides of life. There will still be ocean sunsets and just because we don't see everyone doesn't mean they don't exist. Sometimes we stay up late to love, to fight, to swallow sadness, wallow in pools of our own misery, when it's too late to phone a friend, Regis. Sadness grips in between our shoulders and settles in our chest where it bubbles like hot lava and we're the volcano Earth, struggling to put a lid on this thing. Struggling to keep it tucked down inside. But even Mother Nature gets indigestion sometimes. Bottlerocket outburst as the cork becomes undone and here we are standing, hugging, telling you it's all going to be alright but knowing you're not hearing me, and I'm not expecting you to. But the words must be here and now and stable like the stump of an old oak tree that has been standing for years and years. It is firm, it is real, it is there, it is reliable and sturdy. Paper scribed with the names of our fears, burnt to dust so they will be destroyed. Spartan psychological ritual.