The loss of my special orangey boy, Tommy Scrapples, has been immense. I can feel the lack, the open space where there shouldn't be, the absence of his large presence...it's much too quiet in here. It's much too loud in some ways too; the quiet being almost deafening. This death was sudden, and fairly traumatizing to witness, let alone (I'm sure) endure. It's maybe, finally, really broken me. I might be dissociating. The circumstances truly did him wrong; it was total and complete bullshit. It was not right. He was robbed, and so was I.
Twice, I made this piece, because the first time... it was not right.
It's enough, but it feels like not enough.
Shock of the New
All Hail The Traveler.