When the fountain behind his eyes dries up, he is sent to look for others to cry for him.

He picks the best wailing women, because he knows that the fairer sex has been blessed (or cursed? He can’t decide) with tender hearts.

It’s actually not too difficult to tell which wailing woman is good at her job. It’s not the one who sheds the most tears, nor the one who wails the loudest like some banshee or possessed siren, but the one whose voice is drowned by her tears. He listens for the keening noise of someone in genuine distress; who sounds like she’s trying to express everything in her heart but failing miserably.

The ones he chooses are those who catch their daughters by the hand and teach them how to cry, even though death has long been leaking through their windows.

Wailing in groups may not bring back the dead, but at least it makes people to feel sorry for themselves. So he continues to cry, even when he runs dry and has to cry another person’s tears.


Blah blah blah

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