There are people whose frames seem to droop, however which way they shift, and carry, their weight. It's as if the eyes are perennially searching for the ground, or some place close to it; the mouth is fixed in a frown that has a mark of semi-permanence about it, adding a stratum of sadness to a countenance already doleful. Is it a passing grief, some enduring heartache, or some constant solitariness? One may never know, unless the courage to approach and the patience to dig unearths for one an answer. And the answer may well be another trench of more questions, more speculations.

A look upwards, toward a sunlit sky, perhaps, and a breath of fragrant, greens-and-blooms-kissed air, should lighten the encumbrance, a little bit at a time, and then a bit more, until the shoulders inspire themselves to straighten up, the eyes tire of the browns and the grays, and the mouth curls up into the beginnings of a smile, one that will keep coming back, again, and again, until the heart to make it stay finally makes it stay.