I cry a lot, not for you as I'm sure you are in a better place, as cliche as it sounds to say, but for myself, because of my attachments to you. It's hard to wake up in the morning knowing I didn't get a rambling six-minute voicemail from you in the middle of the night telling stale jokes and playing keyboard. And knowing I never will again. For the rest of my life. However long or short that may be. This shit is just so fucked up, Jacky. You were the person I called first when I entered crisis mode because you're the only person who never failed to lift my spirits, which must have been a lot of work for you in retrospect but seemed effortless. I might not have known you as long as Billy or Tony did, but I talked to you online and on the phone for five years before flying out a few months ago and joking Hey Jacky I've never been married, have you? Hey let's get married. And you held on to me like you were holding on for dear life, and I didn't let you go
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