There are times when I am full up with sad thoughts and quiet sorrows, when their misery and breadth seeps from the pores of my skin and drowns me in their power. I choke on them, gasping for fresh air - for thoughts untainted by a darkness too dense to call black, too hollow to call gray. In time, though, they recede back into my bones, replacing the marrow. I am composed of melancholy. My flesh is a kindness too weak to hold it all in, but solid enough to fool you.