I am, I suspect, in danger of falling in love with my grief, so predisposed have I always been to melancholia.  

It's the most suitable substitute for my lost Love I've yet to find: always present, safe, and warm, a generous partner to hold against me in a cold, expansive bed. 

Were I to buy into the paradigm that we somehow choose our fates, I might even believe that I went into this relationship fully, so that I might fully experience losing Carrie, and the subsequent violent dissolution of my entire universe. But I'm not a fatalist. I did not choose this.

And yet, I've little choice but to embrace it with my whole being, which includes of course, finding the immeasurable beauty within it.  

This vocation is my love letter to Carrie: even if it's a letter she'll never read.