Father, partner, nerd.



We have lost you and what previously stretched from the Sun to the Void is now a long-held questioning of the tears appearing to threaten every bit of solace ahead of defaulting on borrowed humanity. How can we approach the sacrament when the blessing has been torn from our midst?

There are no monsters, there are no answers, and there certainly will never be any doffing of these new, ever-present depressive vestments; from white-labeled missed opportunities to dance together up through the twinkling curse that is the present day: We have your light but we miss your words.


I have flailed at and failed my faith in being pulled to say that I'd trade places with you in an instant, but here we are: I have survived tragedy to become nothing other than an exception beneath and evidence of how unfair the tumbling dice usually are. One year on and I hereby pivot away from the pain I have worn and toward the lessons you left for us.


It can be the mark of what was once great, the bulwark of clutching at what shall fall away, or three phases of loss: Such are the having, forgetting, and embracing of bitterest loves.

There are no creeping monsters atop the spread of hindsight and regret, no eagles molting what should have never been; the first condition is simplest and human conditions are bequests toward none more banal than sin.