I hate politeness. I wish honesty would be given me. Masks are semi-impenetrable. I had rather have my guts punched. Politeness makes me wonder if this is all in my head; if exhaustion, emotion, sensitivity, and weariness are making me lose my mind.
I drove weeping. Thank God, I drove. Keening, I think, is the word for the noise that continually exited me, but I don't know exactly what it is called aside from my name for it: soul-screaming. This is the only time I do not look in mirrors. I have never seen my face in sorrow of this sort. The ravages it leaves behind are enough to see. I have not wept thus in years. I have never wept thus in public.
Park.
I sat there, car turned off, unable to stop. A lament for the dead? I do not know.
Oh friend, be friend. Oh God, help.
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