(no subject)
Funerals aren’t for the dead. I missed his, sleeping through the alarm on a groggy summer morning. I wonder if he knew them, if he had seen even half of them in his last year. Some nights, I try to picture it, ask silent questions. Did he know what he was doing, or was he just trying to ease the pain? Was his band failing? Had he lost a job, a friend, a lover? They say that he could have been somebody. That dream ended alone with his alcohol. It must take a lot of courage to die like that.