Dear grieving heart, I am sorry for all you’ve gone through as it seems trite to type. Writing it out feels unbearable, as if to put it on paper brings it more into reality.  Where am I? Am I typing too loudly? Thinking too loudly? Pouting too loudly? What’s too loud are those 21st century vehicles pulling up to a stop sign directly outside my paper sheeted apartment wall. The stop sign means stop motherfucker.  I can’t believe this is…