Oh, man — can I not be miserable in waking hours only? I rarely remember my dreams, so the fact that I vividly remember three or four from last night means this is me torturing myself on purpose.

Le sigh.

There’s a sense of longing in me
As I read Rosemary’s letter
Her writing honest
Can’t forget the years she’s lost

In isolation
She talks about her love
And as I read
“I’ll die alone”
I know she was aching

There’s a certain detail seen here
The pen must have slipped to the side
And left a stain
Next to his name
She knows he was gone

And isolation
Is all that would remain
“The wound in me is pouring out
To rest on a lover’s shore”

(Opeth, Isolation Years)