unemployed Soma ███████ has been crying again. Well, not crying. They doesn't do that anymore, not since they hit rock bottom and broke their brain forever. But, y'know? Crying? For people who don't cry? People have that look after they've been sorrowing. Maybe that's the word. "Sorrowing." And ███████'s heavy with that look. I can see that their hair is both greasy and matted; chin rough with rubble from the hair that gender won't let them escape. I think they wore that shirt yesterday. I know they haven't eaten yet and it's already evening. They smile at me as they get another cup of water. But I can see it. I can see the sorrow in the slouch of their shoulders, in the angry arch of their eyebrows. I see it at the bottom of those shining depths that reflect me as I gaze at them. I can't take the sorrow from them. I can't say anything or fix it – what is there to say? Nothing. I wonder if that's what they tell themselves they are. I don't want it to be. Nothing. That's all I can say. To acknowledge the grief that hangs heavy on them will just make them think I'm worried, and they'll wilt even more. ████████ Sometimes I wonder if they will ever have a stable job. ███ asks me why it matters. I guess it doesn't. I guess I wonder about it because I love them. I see the brilliance and the shine of the person I love, even past the bony fingers and empty pocketbook and matted hair. I wish someone else would see it. I want everyone to see it. I wonder what those others see. I wonder how many more months will turn over to years and if they will see ███████ 231214 ... raze (this is a powerful piece of writing, and also the first example i've ever seen of words being redacted on blather. it's a really interesting creative choice that somehow has the opposite of a distancing effect.) 231214 what's it to you? who go blather from