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In the fall once the last leaves have fallen and the cold rain starts, there is a sadness that permeates the days. A gray gloomy sadness that the old feel deep in their bones and the young feel as a yearning in the soul. These are the days where I exist. Ever wandering the countryside looking for a meaning, a moment, a love that never was. I am Lady Gray, the banshee, the old crone, the sound of wind howling in the night. I bring with me the loneliness of the ages, the lamentation of the lost souls, and the wails of the living who mourn them. I exist between the seasons when the splendor of fall has ended but the festive glow of winter has not begun. I exist between the worlds, walking along the hills and hollows in the night. I gather the forlorn and the desperate to my bosom. Promising solace but giving none for I am an empty shell doomed to forever wander lost among the bare trees and empty fields. Beware, the witch, the old crone they say not realizing that once I was just like them. I was full of life and yearning that brought me to naught but loneliness and pain. A pain that nothing could diminish, not drink nor food nor flights of fancy. An all-consuming pain that has left nothing but this empty shell of sadness.

 

 

 

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