Hysteria set in pretty quickly. We all watched as it happened, dreadful and encapsulating as it was. They said he was too young to go. I said everyone was too young to go. But I suppose jumping off a cliff in front of nearly a hundred of your friends is quite a way to do it, if you have the mind. I think grandiose might be a passable descriptive. I became aware of the gravity of the situation ten minutes ago, when he walked up to his fiancee with that rose. He never cared for flowers, and neither did she. The pallor of his princely face belied an incomprehensible sorrow. How does sadness work? What is that awful mechanism? Falling prey to my more cynical nature, I figured he had done something bad and wanted to make up for it with the flower. Vassily gave her the rose. She was stunned. He said in the most plaintive voice I've ever heard, "I love you, Emily." And took three steps backward. It was the first time I'd seen him *really* smile in over a year. His face descended. I cried, I think. Later, I finally realized for the first time that Brahms' second symphony was falling in love with me. We spent the night together. It had been a while. She said we shouldn't get all crazy so we didn't get all crazy and I fell asleep softly breathing on her neck. I left early the next morning. The funeral's next week.