He had that groaning soul loneliness, like a puffy white cloud, floating aimless, and aching toward the black abyss--that gray sky sadness; like he was five years old and just watched his dog get hit by a car. You could smell the pain--taste it, like potato chips on a sore throat. It smelled like a basement or cobwebs. I told him, "Nothing will heal that crap, just time and dirt." He didn't blink, and his soft walnut eyes flashed crossword confusion.