I don't want to see him like that. His hands swinging like skill-cranes operated by blind men. Picking at the covers. He makes no sense. He cared so *much* for learning. For speaking well. He taught himself a thousand things, and they're all gone now.
The depression is like a flood, that slips under doors, and through the walls. You don't think it's there, but it's always advancing. Making the ground you stand on smaller and smaller.
The only time I feel normal is when I sleep.