She is always sad like a house on fire - always something wrong.
Her sorrow drags me down like a vengeful current.
She looked out the window her whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow.
Misery and a nameless nostalgic distress possessed him. He was twenty-three, and oh so agonizingly conscious of the fact.
He sought to counsel and soothe the despairing by pointing to the resigned, and to transform the grief which sees only a pit into the grief with sees a star.
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space.
Grief past weeping. I am hollow, I am a shell. To each of us fate sends the right disease. Mine a disease that eats me out from inside.