The New Year is a body count.
The New Year is rows of white bags and tags, heaps of dog eared passports with fading colour pictures, orphaned children, eyeless parents, piles of rubbish and jagged tree trunks.
The New Year is investigative journalism at its worst, the living prying after the dead, trying to find some moral meaning out of the tragedy.
In the aftermath of the carnage, I have retreated to my head space. In the absence of any clarity or notion of where to head towards, in the future, away from the island, I am waiting to go to Cornwall later in the month, with Jacob and Liz. Somehow I am hoping that a couple of days holed up in a Landmark Trust cottage can help him step out of the moment he is stuck in, and find a way of moving on.
Right now, I cannot get away from the futility of the day to day, when millions of lives have been destroyed with what happened the day after Christmas.
I have no right to speak of my life, right now.