Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

W.H.Auden knew that of what he spoke. Grief is soft and quiet, stalking the silent halls on little fox feet. A friend is gone, and we’re trying to make sense of it, but not having much success. I’ll be gone for a few days, but I’ll be back when the sun returns. I promise.