It was one of those nights. I barely slept because all I could do was worry and worry about the misery of a friend whose misery is both beyond comprehension yet entirely clear to me, a friend whose child has died, and who, in order to pay her medical bills, has had to take a second job--one that requires him, in his words, to be a whore in the very art that has sustained him throughout the horror of losing a child.
Donald Justice wrote:
How shall I speak of doom, and ours in special,
But as of something altogether common?