Loss is like a feverish nightmare knit into misty threads of night. It captures you. Consumes you. Throttles you with a quiet agony, with an ache that won’t cease, like a tick burrowed deep in the concaves of your skull. It engulfs you in awful, insistent clouds, like the fat, gray specters that scour through twilight, like the hands and eyes of clever devils, spilling forth from their fingertips mad, inexorable storms.