Get me more Choglet

Dear me, I never seem to cry enough, or cry. I feel like I could do with a good cry now. I am moving on. There is nothing to move on from. I felt more than I hoped I would. I see how facile it is. I see I am only being reasonable to myself, by saving myself time to be sad about other things, if nothing else. There is breeze on this June evening, it's still light out, I have moved into a flat that I like. The dog situation might become more manageable soon. I am kinda worked out with the parade of deadlines: I can't care anymore. I expect to have sex soon, but side by side you think, what's even the point? Who is this person, does he matter to me in even the smallest way, is there any need to have sex with someone who doesn't matter to you in the smallest way?
Why can't Melissa Bank write my life: divide it up into disjointed episodes written up as nifty short stories filled with witticisms and a busy-in-the-head city life? Why am I here, sitting in an empty office, wishing I could find an occasion on which to peg the completely bearable hurt and have a good cry, a cry with not enough pain or the least bit of desolation, just a keen pinch of pain, over, I dunno, someone you would have wanted to at least be on the same page as you? A lot to ask, I know. Imagine how terrible it would have been if it were someone with more selfhood, ego or spine.
Here's Gerard Manley Hopkins:

MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.