Yesterday I found out that an acquaintance from my hometown died by his own hand over the weekend.
I won't go into many details because who needs 'em.
It was a guy I always genuinely liked and respected, and who had gone through some rough times that, I guess, got a little too rough.
I was friendly with him, but my own loss isn't the most unsettling part of the ordeal for me. I have many friends who were very close to him and his family, and it will be a rough few days and weeks for all involved before the long-term effects even set in.
To the Fiennings, and to all others who are touched by this, my regards and my sympathies.
And Henry... the world will be a little dimmer for want of your talent, your wit, and your general presence.
Here's a bit from Edna St Vincent Millay's poem, from which I gracelessly cribbed the title of this post:
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay