One would think that with time, the pain would lessen. It is true that I no longer feel like I teeter on the edge of the abyss, one second from blundering my way into the cavernous pit of despair. Endless days have been my constant companions, and I find that in this respect, not much has changed.

Something is missing, a space previously inhabited by the gentlest (perhaps not outwardly, but certainly inside!) person I have ever known. Suffice it to say that I had not know the heart so capable of emotional depths, but I find it hard to fit anything into her place. Intelligent though I may be, I have not yet found a judicious substitute: it is abundantly clear that killing myself with the most laborious, meticulous tasks I can find at the museum is not working. Nevertheless, I find it idea of allowing myself to cut back on my work particularly odious -- especially when it seems that I have found a sense of purpose once again.

I suppose I have secluded myself away for too long, working quietly on this project. My days and hours are filled entirely, as is my study with racks full of papers and stacks of books. I feel like I have thousands of scribbled notes, far too many scraps to organize in any way that would make sense to another person. I certainly feel that this project has consumed me, which may perhaps be the largest understatement of all.

And yet, despite the sleeplessness, I have to wonder if Josephine would find any cause to disapprove of this. She was no Xanthippe, and never disparaged my work or harassed me in any way about it. Young though she was, I think she knew how important my work was. It was my reason for existing, and she never thought me the zany individual that even my own family said I was.

Perhaps the crux of the matter if that I worry that I will never find another soul as kind, gentle, and understanding as she. And yet, I know that eventually my mother will begin to harrass me to remarry; Merlin can only hope that this will not be any time this year, for I cannot endure that.