a pure fit of spleen
Sometimes, for no apparent reason, a reflection on the windowpane, a cloud in the sky, or a suspended moment plunges us into a state of melancholy—uninvited. Here, in the quiet, with her feet in the water, Émilie drifts into reverie, and from reverie into a pensive melancholy. Is it the slow approach of summer’s end, the shimmering colors of day’s close, or the coolness of the water? Or is it the thoughts weighing on her mind that cast her into the throes of a listless languor? A bit of everything, surely. Yet, chances are that twilight will rouse her from her deep reverie and bring her back to the shores of reality. Sometimes, even a moment of spleen can be a refuge.
Best regards.