A nebulous heartache, wrought by the pecking of the thousand ducks. Despondency that is consoled neither by company nor by solitude. Melancholy that sends us searching, fruitlessly, to find a quotation that captures the inertia, malaise, and restlessness of the moment's sorrow.
Writer's block: such an ungraceful phrase. Perhaps that's what makes it so apt.
They are more yours than mine.
They climb on my old suffering like ivy.
― Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair
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