As I get his house emptier and emptier, the void of his absence grows more profound (felt it deeply the other day) – not that I have any emotional connection to that place: my grandparents' moving there cost me the only house that ever felt like home; no, I think it's – other than him, my rock, being gone, of course – more from the unease of seeing my purpose in this particular life event coming to a (merciful) close and, while the uncertainty in and of itself isn't necessarily terrifying, its illicit coupling with the other void – similarly one of lack of purpose, a void which writing's ability to assuage is waning – is a recipe for if not disaster then at least increased happy pill dosage. Vigilance factor against the worst aspects of my nature: elevated – but for now, I have pool tables to move and am, if nothing else, fully in love with having a pickup; I suppose I'll blow up the other bridges as I cross them.