You think it doesn’t happen, not to people you know, not to friends, or family.
And then it does.

In many ways, this shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it was. He was only in his forties, always the same, sometimes ill, but always there, more or less. Never dying.

But we are all mortal. And some of us die alone in a filthy room with nobody to say goodbye. A little tear or two in the aftermath doesn’t seem to cut it, somehow. And this isn’t much of a tribute but, in what feels like fake grief, it is all I can manage.