The history of melancholia includes all of us. Me, I writhe in dirty sheets while staring at blue walls and nothing. I have gotten so used to melancholia that I greet it like an old friend. I will now do 15 minutes of grieving for the lost redhead, I tell the gods. I do it and feel quite bad quite sad, then I rise cleansed even though nothing is solved. That's what I get for kicking religion in the ass. I should have kicked the redhead in the ass where her brains and her bread and butter are at ... But, no, I've felt sad about everything: The lost redhead was just another smash in a lifelong loss ... I listen to drums on the radio now and grin. There is something wrong with me besides melancholia.