Sorry. I’ve just taken Lican to the airport. 

I’ve come back to an empty house. It’s beautiful here. And my bed is a mess and smells of Lican. So I should be feeling cheerful. 

But separating from Lican reminds me of the loss of my love. That hit me hard. I thought it was going to hurt, but it hurts worse than that. 

So I’m wandering round dressed in black like bloody Hamlet. I wouldn’t be writing this about myself, since drivelling on about being unhappy isn’t something I like to do. But I’m too scattered to write anything else at the moment.