The Bleak Gray Mist

A bleak gray mist slowly descends slays all the color in the land. Of melancholy it portends. The slow trickle of hourglass sand shows seconds turn to endless days each one a moment of self-doubt and ever-deepening malaise; as loathing builds its own redoubt. The bleak gray mist will darker grow each time it creeps up to attack; it was, and will be always so until there only will be black.