There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart - an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. -Poe
There can be no comprehension of the things we endeavour everyday, for they have settled into such routine we do without thinking. No person has stopped to ponder the meaning of it all. No answers are proffered to the bustling market of everyday's morning.
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