My next book will be coming out soon. The manuscript is finished and it’s progressing through the steps to publication. It’ll only be a matter of weeks from now before it’ll be available. So once that process is done, what comes next?

Our love can now be quantified in finite terms. The clock that seemed destined to spin forever has laid its hands to rest. It no longer produces a running tally but instead displays a final count.

168 days after I lost my wife to suicide, I find myself on the dreaded 16th day of the 8th month of the year, our anniversary. The numerology is not lost on me as I fixate on every aspect of this void, more noticeable today than any other so far.

I have already begun and made great progress creating a manuscript for my next book.

I peer into memories, the times you were still there, and I remember how smiling feels. Continuing to dream, I look into your eyes, embrace your soft skin, and I remember how love feels.

There is only one dream left to enjoy, to know that it's all untrue, but I crave the knowledge to find the way, any way, in which I may chase this dream.

This last wave has been receding, though I'm not counting chickens just yet. This feels familiar now.

I am numb and debilitated by pain simultaneously, and indescribable sensation I wish on no one. I used to be a human being before this.

"It doesn't get better, just different."