A skiff of snow on verge of melting covers cold, still Melancholy. Grey skies hide weak sun. Green grass tips poke through the snow.
The snow catches rabbit and fox prints.
The animals shelter under dried bushes.
An occasional cottage dots the landscape.
Visitors walk far to find a place to rest.
The denizens of Melancholy keep to themselves. They gather for silent sermons given by a dour pastor, who has taken a vow of silence and gestures instead.
The monotonous words drone on. Afterwards, the people go home to read books.
They silently ponder while sitting by the hearth and walking across the snow flats beneath grey skies.
A great gray stone castle lies in ruins. There hangs a tattered flag and a sullied crest and coat of arms. It belonged once to lost kings and forgotten queens. Lost rulers and forgotten overlords. Now it serves as the Church of Melancholia, but the pastor has taken a vow of silence and the nuns and monks as well. No one speaks. Still the parishioners come. Their hopes have been dashed, but they come together in solidarity in the Church of Empty Melancholia. They bring their own books. They chant their own chants. They draw tarot cards and interpret them for each other. They cast spells. They sing dour songs. Visitors come and are bewildered and quickly leave preferring the wild sense of the lands for the nonsense within this place where people gather for no reason and cannot overcome their despondency together.
They think they have come to Empty Morose but it is a ruin as well. They leave in utter confusion not sure which place they mean to visit or if they arrived.
A great gray stone castle lies in ruins. There hangs a tattered flag and a sullied crest and coat of arms. It belonged once to lost kings and forgotten queens. Lost rulers and forgotten overlords. Now it serves as the Church of Melancholia, but the pastor has taken a vow of silence and the nuns and monks as well. No one speaks. Still the parishioners come. Their hopes have been dashed, but they come together in solidarity in the Church of Empty Melancholia. They bring their own books. They chant their own chants. They draw tarot cards and interpret them for each other. They cast spells. They sing dour songs. Visitors come and are bewildered and quickly leave preferring the wild sense of the lands for the nonsense within this place where people gather for no reason and cannot overcome their despondency together.
They think they have come to Empty Morose but it is a ruin as well. They leave in utter confusion not sure which place they mean to visit or if they arrived.
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