A THIN BROW ARCHED, gaze never straying from her page as she composed a monthly report to her favourite cousin, Melancholia. The pen wavered for a second, debating briefly whether or not to disclose her husband’s concerns. On one hand, Melancholia might be thrilled to hear Gomez consider such woeful lamentations. On the other, she may feel slightly upstaged.
A sigh escaped crimson lips, gently chiding, ❝ We have every right to worry…..but think of the lessons nature imparts upon us —— if a vulture doesn’t learn to eat it’s share early on, it will never do so. Then it starves, n'cest pas? ❞ Her gaze panned up at last, a faint smile settling on her lips. ❝ Are they digging more graves? …our darlings. ❞
suit striped forearm rests against the low BEAM before him, awning the window. sunlight filtered through at such HEIGHT is hardly all too unpleasant, merely white light that seeks to illuminate. no rays all too golden or joyous upset the balances of their GLOOMY, stale little home and that’s entirely the way they like it. a MOURNFUL hum from him, and he seems more upset than his children for their loss of those days as small, defenceless things. at least, from the WAY that wednesday now throws her hammer at a SCREECHING, tottering pugsley.
“ correcto, mi amore. “ he mutters, in answering to EITHER of her questions. but then gomez can feel that stare reach UPON HIM and so does he twist in order to look beneath his own upheld arm. comical, no? and with the best intention. to see her smile is to hear ANGELS sing, flowers could wilt at the sight. a killer of all OTHER joy for no one could be so radiant in theirs. but curiosity soon calls forth another hum, a short and inquisitive little squeak. “ is it TIME for melancholia’s monthly letter already, cara?---- i lose track of the days, with the FALL season now here . . . “
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