Harmony had been in intangible, unrealised agony since the 29th and it had only started escalating from the 6th. It hurt all the more keenly as it was his first anniversary alone, but even then he'd purposefully stayed away from Classic, from Hippie, from anyone else who might know what was going on with him (and even those who wouldn't).
The things he'd seen, the things he'd seen had been horrific, bad trips from what felt like the very core of him that had him curled up and screaming where only the homeless and insane could hear him. He'd lost everything except the clothes on his back by the time he wandered towards Strawberry Fields late on the 7th, somehow shoeless but sock-footed, hiccuping with tears he'd stopped crying and dirty-faced. He'd curled up and fallen asleep on top of the memorial for about two and a half hours before another mourner came and gently, but irritatedly, kicked him awake and moved him on.
He'd been lurking on the outskirts since then, curled up and pushing his hand against his chest like that would ease the ache; as if that would ease the ache.
It was both harder and easier to be there surrounded by fellow followers, lovers, even if not in the same carnal sense that he'd known the dead Beatle. He was surrounded here by snatches and fragments of songs he knew well, songs within him, but one of a few lines, for a time, rose up above the noise of the others and hit him hard.
He got up and wandered through the crowd, most of which moved out of the way for him, and he stood before the memorial, looking over at the brother he thought he'd never be before again, trying to decide if this was real or just another feverish bad trip.