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I started writing. Every thing I could think of that Anthony had ever told me, every piece of advice, every skid we'd made up together, every memory. Every single story. If I stopped writing and started thinking about the reality of losing him, I'd weep, so I kept the pen to the paper and didn't stop. The ink flowing to the blank pages of that book was my lifeline, my IV, my only escape from collapsing. In that moment I understod something about my writer husband that I'd never understood before. I had a small glimpse into the act of writing a direct escape from pain. For the first time, I experienced the physical truth of what it felt like to dwell in the act of crayon as the only viable escape from an unbearable, unfacable reality.

Amanda Palmer on Anthony Martignetti

3:15 p.m. - 2014-05-25