The forecast was overcast, the newscast drudged docile during a dip in the drowning dawn's eve. Drenched in the dusk gobbling the cobblestone walkway, the streetlights' dim shower paints a setting in spectral haze. Malaise is Misery's company today, the papers say. Mis-praise, the mystery of tomorrow's yesterday. The sewer drains drink the slippery ink; hollow waste stockpiling in the study. The winds whip eyes with downcast sighs while conjecture trudges the muddy. The Anchor hushed a gasp before heaving up the chain, so to run the ship aground than listen to the rain.