Stare at the walls. There are no words.
Why do I feel my eyes wet with tears that weren’t shed for my grandfather?
Why do my fingers shake for someone whose face I’ve never seen, whose voice I’ve never heard?
Sentences. I’ve read sentences she wrote.

And once the creator of something as simple but as full of life as those sentences is gone, then politics and angle proofs and identify a disaccharide can all go to hell. It means nothing, because caring for one another is what makes us human.
I’ll take something for granted and then get angry with the knowledge that there are people I’ve talked to who can’t.
And in hours I’ll do it again and get angrier for having forgotten.

Humans are strange.

Should I feel more sad, or less?
More angry, or less?
Would it be less horrible if it happened with more warning?
Or is it all melodrama? Am I looking for tragedy to fill the parts of my life where it’s void?

And I feel guiltier when I think of who this really hurts. And the most I can do is words.