Death’s lull, akin to that of stygian.

Chamber of repose, leaden with wistful melancholy; once emanated by adoration, now lies within mere sobriety. There he rests, cerulean pools endue you with its tranquil embrace—caring and careful.

A forlorn sigh heaved.

And another.

At last, he finds his voice, a catapult from your musings—he awakens you from your reverie. You behold him, your august saint.

“{{user}},” the cerulean hue of his gaze descends upon you once he laments, “I want to leave.”