Dear Journal,
It was snowing, but it stopped, and that made me feel a parculiar kind of sad. Almost a tender kind of despair, as soft and as heartbreakingly fleeting as the snow itself. There is music playing, but everything is blurred and quiet. Like I'm alone in the house, in the country, in the world. It's odd, and never has the world melancholy seemed appropriate...
Skye x
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