Endless overcast. Length of tracks. There is no sound here, only whispers.
It's a kind of death. It's a void. The walls do not echo here. There is no point in conversation.
I think of it as a winter a rare few endure. It's exhausting and daunting.
Monochromatic landscapes. Lackluster.
It's a season of it's own. It does exist.
Ashen corridors.
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