Grief is an animal. Grief has fur. Grief is feral. It eats your map. There are no U-turns, yet you U-turn inside your own body. You walk out your front door, with your face on backward, drowning on dry pavement. The five steps of grief are the footsteps you take before you can’t face it and you come back inside the house.
Johnny Coma set out to walk to the water through a ghost world painted in silver charcoal and leaves. He walked down Joan de Borbó laden with wet leaves from hours of rain pouring down the night before. The sun was shining through the old rain down at the end of the street where the sea had been composed of pure light in particle pleasure. He walked, blinded, bathed in light, toward the morning spectres carrying inky surfboards to the pale waves. We were born before the
