@

Finding the “@” symbol on the Italian keyboard became a sad action.

When you forget for a second and your body reminds you to be sad again.

Grief is my gut’s incessant proposal that the world and all its components are tragic.

It feels odd to sit in the same studio and walk through the same hallways as those around when I am so deeply in a different space.

I went outside with Quentin this morning and he gave me the best hug. So much compassion, it was like being embraced by a saint. He gave me one of his “real cigarettes.” we were talking about the fire and Monica Faggin called out the window:

“Is it sunny out there? Why are you wearing sunglasses?”
“I’m crying, my friend died.”
“But it doesn’t look sunny to me,  why are you wearing them?”
“Because my eyes are sensitive, because I’ve been crying, because my friend died in a fire.”
She said “Oh” and closed the window.

Quentin asked if I wanted another hug.

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