I'm in the sort of mood where you want to do things like moving to another country on a whim or giving yourself a haircut with the sewing scissors. I hope it goes away soon, but if not, expect to see a photo of me on some unnamed street in Paris with a one-inch crew cut.
Today I needed the password to P's Mac account so I could authorize my work computer to play a song he'd bought from iTunes. I didn't know the password, so I tried the feature where you answer a secret question to recover it. I was able to get the answer to his extremely cryptic secret question on the first try, and after .287 seconds of pleased triumph, I got horribly upset about it. I'd understood enough about the way his mind worked to know this answer that no one else on the planet could have guessed, and it was like connecting with him for an instant, only he wasn't there -- as if the voice I thought I heard had turned out to be an echo instead.
I don't think I'll ever know anyone else that well again, and honestly, I don't know if I want to. It's too much to bear, always reaching out for that other mind and never finding it.