I really hate to do this, but as I hung up the phone just now, I felt a twisting and nauseating pain in my stomach that is lasting. It is no longer the violent bug that poisoned every orifice of my body for a weeks length, but its source is emotionally invoked. It's a 'used to be love' ladies and gentlemen, which is so contaminated and cancerous now, it is hard to imagine that it ever was.

A turn to Rilke for hope:

How shall I hold on to my soul, so that
it does not touch yours? How shall I lift
it gently up over you on to other things?
I would so very much like to tuck it away
among long lost objects in the dark
in some quiet unknown place, somewhere
which remains motionless when your depths resound.
And yet everything which touches us, you and me,
takes us together like a single bow,
drawing out from two strings but one voice.
On which instrument are we strung?
And which violinist holds us in the hand?
O sweetest of songs.

Rainer Maria Rilke
New Poems: c. 1907