It feels like a house with one of its children gone.  Perhaps even emptier than that.

It feels like a song with no music or lyrics.  Perhaps even quieter than that.

It feels like a bed with no one to warm it.  Perhaps even colder than that.

It feels like a list of unfulfilled promises that can never be redeemed.  Perhaps even more disappointing than that.

At least now he can sleep peacefully without suffering.  That’s the only substantive good I can find in this hollow.

Loki, February 1997 – May 2014