Cry. Cry because you have life. You must want to, cry, I mean. You have my blessing, and because I too feel unfounded anguish, I have sad authority. Cry because laughter is to sadness as desire is to pleasure. Is beauty happy or sad? Happy on its impression, but sad in its extension; and crying is pretty beautiful.

A good weeping is good, is the maternal consensus. Collect yourself, recover, recycle, reboot, gasp, suck in, moan, sting, persevere, forget, weep, for your sake, let ink fall out with the salt and water, drain, die, birth. Whatever melancholy has been cultivated is an exaggerated attempt to stem the flow, and the release/restraint practiced daily in all its forms can be summed up by those heaves of desperate fury. Shake. Quiver.

And while suicide is typically marked by comfort in its freedom, its sad nature hints at crying as a flash attempt at drowning oneself with droplets. I've never heard someone say they don't like the taste of tears--salt water may hint at the allure of sinking to the bottom. Wallow.

Cling to a person, or hide your face, or scratch the walls, or tighten your body, or vomit a little, or beat yourself, or beat an object, or beat a person, or writhe, or suppress the retching, or scream, or run, or stand and stare, or shower, or shower an object, or sing, or flush red and hot, or turn cold as tears.

Cry. I give you permission. And see me outside my home and cry that you found someone (I found you) who doesn't necessarily want to see you cry, but who is comforted by your sadness. Though, I can't remember the last time I cried.