John Allen brings his finger-wagging internal censor Pal along to try to defeat "what is" by surrendering to it. Yeah right. That's going to fucking happen.

Pal tries every trick he knows to get his friend to see that he's lost any resemblance to a real boy and has turned into a bad replica of one.

Find out how you too can end up a vassal, mistaking it for love. On sale now — balls at cut-rate prices. Act now or maintain your dignity.

John can't stop himself, though. He has not moved on. He doesn't want to, but he does want to call her every single day upon awakening, or when he's wandering around the empty house at 3 a.m., thinking he might sleep and not sleeping, wanting to see her so much that he would give anything—anything—just to laugh with her once more, and is willing to be heartbroken again and again and again because all the pain would be worth it just to hold her hand one more time.

But then again, there is always lunch.

John Allen returns for a return cage match with God hoping that this time he will finally triumph. This fight is to the death and there are no rules. This is heartbreak. Real heartbreak. Not the kind on sitcoms. Nope this is heartbreak without any uplifting moral or any greater meaning other than you fucking lost and you are never going to get back up on your feet. So enjoy it down there on the canvas.You are done. Oh- and John, stop fucking crying. It's embarassing.

John Allen returns to the struggle of saying yes to what is and losing yet again, this time to love. This is not a story about a breakup. It is an elegy for an open wound. traced through memory, music, obsession and the body itself.

The heart break is never ending. The stakes are very high. This is the grail wound-a land laid waste where no birds sing- and the only thing that heals it is attention..

There is no advice here .No lesson, No moral. No finger wagging bullshit. There is only witness.