This is not a place of joy.
No lead-light windows offer comfort here.
You do not return here for such things.
This is a palace of sorrow,
Bought and paid for in grief.
It is upon me now.
I can feel it.
I see it in every movement,
Slow,
Deliberate,
Forced.
My answers grow short.
My gaze grows distant.
The world recedes.
I have no need for conversation.
Whatever you’re offering,
Holds no interest.
Your words fall upon deaf ears.
You are of no consequence here.
For this is my place.
My woe.
My mourning.
