Right now, and on occasion, I feel bitter when I encounter people with lesser sores and shallow joys. What do they know, what do they know—such is the narcissism of my grief. But people die all the time, I was thinking that going up the escalator today. The relapse must have slipped in earlier than I realised. Other people have been here too. 

Chatter doesn’t allow for conversation: all I have is public space.