All of the furniture and shelves in his room taken apart and cleared out. Lights turned on and windows opened. We got drunk and finally chilled in the room and drank some more and smoked the nargilah and burnt sage and introduced new life into the darkness. It felt good, it felt like many other nights spent in that very same room, except now it was empty, except now it was full of future. It was a fresh space again, no longer his, no longer occupied by his death, it was ours, all of ours. I still cried later on that night after I was really drunk and alone again, but whatever grief left over is fading. Grief is a selfish and lonely thing, and it is nothing worth holding onto.