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Wallowing; it has always been this way. This house, this window, the absence of sun; thick mossy rock, damp wood floors, bubbled glass, loyally looking West over the sea, deep in a cliff face wreathed in beards of grey. Unwavering white days of winter wane as ice cold floes and monotony break, on delicate warm whisper winds of spring. Somber darkness of night gives way to joy, as her life-giving light ignites the panes. Slowly, her corona crests the cliff side; a warm glow gently kisses next of kin. The blooms boom, the grass greens, the trees reach; vibrantly scented swathes of color burst, yapping black pups swim in the new blue tide. Time grows an obstinate obstructionist; his roots based in a pocked pedestal rock, his tensile trunk is slender, tall, and strong, his high hands lined with dense rows of digits, his tips rise defiantly through sea mist. She flickers, the panes cool, the house goes grey, the blooms wilt, the grass bows, and the trees molt, the blackening tide mugs the rugged coast; this dance of love and life comes to an end. Wallowing; it has always been this way.