Dear Diary,

Today the weather seems to match how I feel. The sky feels low and oppressive, a heavy grey quilt choking out the sunshine. The air is cold and wet, the leaves, the grass blades drip with rain-drop tears. The trees are shedding their golden clothes and taking on their wintery, cold bareness, their darkened branches black, hungry fingers against the dreary grey sky. I feel similarly low, weighty and simply ill.

Not a lot is happening with me, then. Cooped up in the house, feeling half asleep as I watch the news on TV or even as I write now. Today feels like one long extended nap.

The End

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