damien jane the grief is too heavy. i'm carrying it on a plate. the plate is too heavy, and i drop it. it breaks on the floor, in large pieces, large like the pieces of your heart, too large they said. enlarged heart (they said). after all these years, you never forgot. after all those red-lit bars and tiny paper wrappers and cigarettes, you remembered. after all those times you would fall / stand / fall / stand all those hits to the head. after all that and it was your heart, they said. at your funeral, they laid you among flowers and words, dressed up as if your final promenade, eyes sealed. i know what they put inside of you, to make you look real. to try, really. you looked waxen, really. but the tie was perfect. at your funeral, i read Rilke. the piece your father selected. it was beautiful and perfect, as alive as you are not. someone's brother read Neruda, your father told us about your birth, your life, your death. all that struggle, to fit into a place that didn't deserve you. your heart was too large. 220614 ... jane i will never stop writing about you, or stop crying, or stop mourning you, my_brother. i will never feel right about the_space_between us. 220614 ... jane i'm back from new_york again, i'm so, so tired. tired of holding it all together. tired of falling apart and rebuilding. tired of trying to jam into a place with a heart that won't fit. 220614 ... jane we went through so much stuff, and yet so much left untouched. i brought home some papers, some stapled printout about a mystery island, some of your writing in a strange font. most of a hanafuda deck, because i remembered you writing to me about the cards, and how they were tied to your art. a Library bar matchbook, which was a gift from Alie. one of your ties, maybe it was your fathers, but he gave me permission. a black velvet blazer, with roses embroidered on the breast. and some photos, mostly of the city because you were there, and always will be. 220614 what's it to you? who go blather from