How I hate everything!
melancholy
I want to hold onto this funny thing. God, it's gotten big on me. I don't know what it is. I'm so damned unhappy, I'm so mad, and I don't know why. I feel like I'm putting on weight. I feel fat. I feel like I'm saving a lot of things, and I don't know what. I might even start reading books.
funny humor melancholy
She was not cryingWhich surprised me very muchBut I understand nowThat she had found placesFor her melancholyThat were behind more masksThan only her eyes
There can be few places more conducive to the quiet, solitary contemplation of melancholy thoughts than a window-seat; and if beyond the window-panes there is a steely vignette of November murk and withered twigs, so much the better.
To keep something, you must take care of it. More, you must understand just what sort of care it requires. You must know the rules and abide by them. She could do that. She had been doing it all the months, in the writing of her letters to him. There had been rules to be learned in that matter, and the first of them was the hardest: never say to him what you want him to say to you. Never tell him how sadly you miss him, how it grows no better, how each day without him is sharper than the day before. Set down for him the gay happenings about you, bright little anecdotes, not invented, necessarily, but attractively embellished. Do not bedevil him with the pinings of your faithful heart because he is your husband, your man, your love. For you are writing to none of these. You are writing to a soldier.
The hardest part for us was watching them harvest our Shamouti oranges. Those were our favourites, thick skinned, seedless and juicy. When the wind was strong, the scent of their blossoms in the spring and their fruit in the summer still reached us.
Rightly tired of the pain I hear and feel, boss.. Where we's comin from or goin to or why; If I could it end it, I would. But I can't.
His jaw was slack and his mouth open, and he wondered if perhaps he would drown eventually; drowned by the falling rain.
Melancholy overwhelms me at supersonic speed.
What is my nothingness to the stupor that awaits you?
I sometimes think about old tombs and weedsThat interwreathe among the bones of kingsWith cold and poisonous berry and black flower: Or ruminate upon the skulls of steedsFrailer than shells and on those luminous wings -The shoulder blades of Princes of fled power, Which now the unrecorded sandstorms grindInto so wraith-like a translucencyOf tissue-thin and aqueous bone-
remembrance melancholy transience
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