It's been a sad sort of day; the clouds have covered the sun but there's no rain to be found. It's been a sad sort of week; things have changed irrevocably inside me, inside you. It's been a sad sort of year; the holidays make me nostalgic for the past sensations. It's been a sad sort of existence; every life encounter has become something more like a near death experience. We just sit at the bus stop and wait until our mortality catches up to us. We can run away, but the Reaper finds us all eventually, once we stop to rest. Once you're gone, you can't go back. Oh, it's been a sad sort of existence.