Melancholy weighs a bit more heavily on the mind than ‘sad,’ or ‘lonely.’  It sits like an orange in the little scale at the market. Melancholy pervades the day-to-day. It seasons all the other words and makes them taste unfamiliar in your mouth. You sit at a counter elbow to elbow with a fat, cheery man eating a banana belgian waffle, and a skinny hipster hunched deliberately over his laptop and watered-down lemonade (a flourish of his hand tells you he’s easygoing about things like strangers accidentally bumping his plate with their arm), in a bustling diner tucked away on some street corner, the movie audio background noise of chatter and the occasional steam from an espresso machine, books crammed into shelves (you imagine they have little personalities, and voices; maybe they’re bickering with each other), but you really shouldn’t buy any more because three sit half-read at home (you kick yourself for forgetting to bring one), and there it sits, across the room, pinning you down with smug eyes and a pursed grin: melancholy. 


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