So this is a life. What it comes to. Strangers get depressed early in the morning, browsing through it, and go off to have coffee and look at pictures of bunnies. They think about the people they love, lost or not, and how they would feel. How they do feel. They think about the people they will never know. They add sugar. They walk around.
This is a life.
At the funeral, his aunt said she was surprised, that he had so many friends. Because he didn't know.
There are a lot of things he will never know, including that strangers have him with their coffee. That the book he closed the cover on passes hand to hand, until the pages are worn blank, and everybody knows the story. That it cannot be obliterated; it can't be undone. That nothing ends simply.
That nothing ends at all.
You lose, sweetheart.
But nice try.