Not in the mood to write another story about how hateful I imagine I am—“embrace toxicity”—not in the mood to blame myself for things that have happened—“as if I am the only person who played a role in its end”—not in the mood to accept this role that I have thrust upon myself—“assisted by others, or an other”—not in the mood to in fact do much of anything at all. Not in the mood to speak or sit or think or look or write or act. It feels catastrophic to lose a life—in all the senses of that word. To lose a life, to lose lives. To wonder if anything could have been done, if you will ever speak again.