I am profoundly, perpetually sad.
If there is no getting out of it, truly and permanently, then what is the purpose for staying in it?
Hope is deceiving. It lingers on sunny days but hides behind the moon, and the storms, and the emptiness of starvation.
I am gravely sorry.
Nothing is big enough to explain the hollowness that paradoxically accompanies the heaviness I’m constantly feeling. And that’s the thing–I need an adequate explanation.