I found a couch for my studio, at the curbside of a funeral home, a couch of tears and heavy bodies, maybe, but a clean couch, clean enough for a funeral home, for a place to either remember the life of one who passed or to mourn their death, I would prefer the mourning, maybe because that is the most human thing to do in time of death, to cry, to cry until we sting, until we choke and cough, the crying. Never have I lost somebody, a friend, a brother, a lover, never. But I know such days will come and I know I will cry, looking for any shoulder to rest my head against. I do remember one time when I was about 11 years old, my cousin who was 17 years old died in his sleep, some think it was a drug overdose, I do not really know, it does not really matter, I remember crying like I never cried before, I just looked at him in the coffin, in his Nike shirt and baseball hat, he liked sports, and I collapsed, death itself might have been the reason, the thought of death, of dieing, of not being with those you love, and to see it right there in front of me, not really understanding it, it came over me, it broke me as a little child, my father held me, and his holding made me cry too, my father never held me like he did on that day.