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