She's still away, it's been a month now. The first three weeks were hell; a week of family holiday cursed by bad weather, old stories, and her absence; a week of drunken debauchery and beachswimming at a friend's holiday house, conversation, participation, emptiness. A outdoor doof; insular substance-provoked experience, self-probing, massive intensity, filled with people I know and love but still lonely, still this holding back, still these lower levels of knowing people. Then back, the house, the home; socializing, grey days, colourful days, lots of time on the phone, trying to plan the year: a job, a house, a volunteer position, a new language, new people, old people experienced anew and gradually I started to heal, to learn to live without her as she did earlier, in the first week. She took to Germany like a duck to water, immersed in people and the place, with not so much room for me. I can understand, I can be like that when I travel, but not when I'm in love. It feels like year 11, the maudlin, lonely pointlessness of unrequited love. I'm not sure what to do next but I feel like I've learnt to walk again.