broken shoes on your feet, grief for a family that aren't dead - just dead to you - on your back and a book in your pocket. a book about a man you idolise. by that same man you idolise. his songs, his words, his honesty. a similar honesty that takes up the blank spaces in the notebook that resides in your other pocket. our griefs, though different, united us. yet while you begin to live, i start to die. again.