I'm so lonely, but I don't want to be with anyone except my dead husband. So here I sit, aching, not wanting to ache, but unable to escape it. This feeling saps me of energy, of any motivation, of vitality itself. My brain has been irreparably damaged by this loss, the tendrils of our interconnectedness severed like fibers of a sinew sliced by a carving knife, raw nerve endings exposed and screaming. I'm all cried out. Crying is cathartic for a while, but the reality remains: my life is now empty and meaningless, and it just seems like too much effort to hold on to purpose anymore, especially in face of the coronapademic and rampant, pathological stupidity that gushes like the biblical flood from the highest echelon of our farcical democracy. California, my home state, is burning, and I haven't the emotional surplus to much care. I just want to curl up in a corner of an empty room and cease.