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The old man sees himself as still young and able,
home from the sea with a bag of seashells in his pea coat pocket,
a present for his unfound bride.

But the bride was found and lost as the years passed by.
Most mornings now his leg hurts,
a reminder of the fall not long ago.

Friends depart; each day a little lonelier.
Every thing is New and Improved for the worse.
Turning full circle he sees only strangers -
young, respectful, disinterested.

The world seems stretched.
Places once side-by-side, are miles apart.
Every place is too far.

Uncomfortable in a changing landscape he laments aloud:
“Why am I still here?”
“Where did I put my seashells?”

Generally this much we may conclude of melancholy:

That it is most pleasant at first…a most delightsome humour, to be alone, walk alone, meditate…and form a thousand fantastical imaginations unto themselves.

[Melancholics] are never better pleased than when they are so doing, they are in paradise for the time, and cannot well endure to be interrupt.

Anatomy of Melancholy
Robert Burton, 1621