A melancholy air infects my lungs, and my breath is heavy with a sadness that is not quite sorrow. I sit alone in the evening, about me the noise of others’ phones and the din of air ducts. I contemplate the day and see that for all my struggle nothing was done. What longing rests in my bosom still. I am not satisfied in the night by sleep, nor gratified in the day by work: all is longing and hopeless desire.
But tears do not fall. I am inured and numb.
What are dreams without an end? All hope’s deferred.
Tale Told 