Stephen would have been 69 on the 16th. We all share a few photos of him in the group chat. I feel odd and spend the morning crying or feeling like I'm about to start crying. Usually a couple of us would go on a walk or meet for coffee or have dinner on this day as well as the anniversary of his death, the four year mark is coming down the pike, but this year it's not possible for mostly obvious reasons. At the moment, I'm trying to write a bit about fatherhood, growing up with three dads, and the way S's illness can plot Andrew Lansley and then Jeremy Hunt's devastating tenures as Secretaries of State for Health and Social Services, so am expending less energy on not feeling and as a result my feelings feel closer to the surface than they usually do. I think about reading something for class but go upstairs, climb into bed, and read Edmund Gosse's Father and Son. I read half of this and then put it down, drift from one day to the next, have my own birthday and turn a year older, go on a long walk, have class, work on some writing, talk to extensively to Klaus about future plans, have my return to work meeting, watch Sonatine, and don't pick it up again. All week I have read only in dribs and drabs—chapters of the Vindication of the Rights of Woman and most but not all of a Fred Moten chapbook both of which (despite my interest) I abandon in a migraine haze. I burn white hot with fury and missing people all week and I don't find it to be a conducive atmosphere for reading. I expect next week will be slightly better.