Words seem to get in the way tonight. The wrong words. And where there are no words, this silence screams the blood curdling chills of language face down in a roadside ditch. So newly dead the flies of disquieted expectations have not even noted the gruesome occurrence as yet.
The ink in my journal tonight reeks of this death.
It is not fit or noteworthy enough for an obit.
I should not mention its passing.