An understanding that the frustration I've felt as I stare down yet another trip into legal erasure of a person (tangentially this time) – perhaps worth noting that, both times, I've been reading Proust – isn't over the death: think I said yesterday that, while I obviously feel bad for my wife and her family, my mother-in-law's death really doesn't impact me emotionally: I liked her, and, for the most part, lucked out in the mother-in-law department, but she hadn't been well for a long time and her relatively quick passing (at home) was a gift for her. What's bothering me is that my grandfather's estate issues and such are still going on – nothing bad, just a lot to dismantle – and, now that I'm dealing with (though not with the same level of involvement) another one, I feel like I'm back at the beginning of the process with my grandfather – down to the nursing home my father-in-law will be going into. It's an utterly exhausting loop, but one that begs the question: in these morning hours spent toiling in The Paintshop, writing things that no one reads only for my own belief that, in order to communicate to a nebulous someone, they need to exist, am I being myself for the only time during the day, or am I visiting the mausoleum of a previous iteration of myself, as others visit a grave?