Ah read her diary on her sheets, Scrutinizin' every lil' piece of dirt, Tore out a page'n'stufft it inside my shirt. Fled outa the window, And shinni… - Nick Cave

I hear stories from the chamber,
How Christ was born into a manger,
And like some ragged stranger died up on the cross,
And might I say it seems to fitting in its way,
He was a carpenter by trade,
Or at least that's what I'm told.

It seems to me, that if we love, we grieve. That's the deal. That's the pact. Grief and love are forever intertwined. Grief is the terrible reminder of the depths of our love and, like love, grief is non-negotiable.

The mo-o-o-on, its huge cycloptic eye,
Watches the city streets contract, twist and cripple and crack.