Trying to write soon after, I found how little writing can do. Of course there was nothing to do, nothing to be done. The blank page would not be answered.

What I wrote - the first thing - I wrote around a drawing of you, beatific and bare. It was writing before I lost the words and drawing before I lost sight.

I had to make up rituals. They were too new and too contingent and as an actor I was unwilling and unconvincing. It was obvious. I was my only audience.

There is a fear of forgetting what cannot be forgotten until it is admitted that the loss alters permanently the shape of a life and the difference is the loss.

I could repeat your name over and over, or I could return to write now and then, or not write at all. There is no resolution and no final statement.

In the worst dreams you are polite. You are not displeased to see me. There is a note in your smile, a sympathetic response to everything I haven't done.