How much emotional pain of loss can one possibly take without an irrevocably damaging effect? It seems impossible to believe that one ever had a life of any independence without the grievous missing involvement of those now deceased ‘others‘. The hollow holidays of life, once repetitively celebrated grudgingly as a matter of course, now completely absent from one’s experience. That enforced personal policy of routine distancing practiced in the past, now regretted in the flickering light of bitter hindsight. Dreams of finding one’s self dressing in public places oblivious of the experience of any nakedness of the type that the rest of the world seems equally indifferent to. Each moment of knife thin instant’s of now, providing bare shelter upon the endless plane of a night bound desert island in turn offering no possibility of shelter from the stiff wind of inner turmoil. The only dreams currently possible being that of how one might crawl under a rock biting hard upon a bullet. This emotional shutdown mere quivering cardboard within a last redoubt posed against a final collapse. Tough is too it soak it all up while realizing that the rest of the world is undergoing much of the same if not worse. Why wallow in the un-salvable past? What terrible spirits can haunt one now from the fully exhausted melodrama of endless night? This is merely a dark tunnel within your own heart devoid of quenching blood. Too deep within the depths of post midnight to offer any current illumination upon the possibility of an exit. The only recourse being to continue on quietly and see just how far this fissure leads?