34: I have a base feeling of comfort in disruption. One point of a number that overtake me in my way —
Together, you and I defined arcs of ironic repentance but worked out in a series of affable disputes. Just so, we’re still at a loss. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve can heal yet not wind smudging our wounds into rotten smoke. Why?

It’s not enough I lose, I’m scared; ah, no relief as such, I won’t travel well. I have your brave face but it’s shedding dry tears, breaking promises, breaking me.