Sometimes you just stare at the wall for hours, knowing you should call someone, do something, anything. But the phone feels like a ten-ton brick and the thought of pretending to be okay, of conjuring up some *spark*, just feels…pointless. You spend a lifetime making sure everyone else is fed, clothed, happy, and then suddenly they’re gone, and you’re supposed to just be…fine? At seventy? Fuck that. You just exist, and you’re supposed to be grateful for the quiet.