Grief is a day shrouded in fog and icy rain fed by a howling wind. It is spoiled fruit no longer fit to be savored. Grief makes its exhausted bed in a hidden cave on a barren mountain ridge called Sorrow. It rests in rare moments of silence and grows weary amidst mindless laughter. Its tears leave furrows unfilled by platitudes. When its memories are roused, new rivers flow, and expectation is uprooted, torn, and damaged.

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