And it is known as Melancholoia. We spend our days toiling on our fruitless fields, being mocked by the untasty fish that we long to sample, lying in our non-existent shacks despairing, and eating the gross seaweed, which is the only smell all throughout the land. Our standard is that of a sad cat.

We will begrudgingly accept the presence of any suitably despairing person, because we find interacting with new people both depressing and awkward. Any happiness or hope will be shunned, however we welcome mocking and the cruel laughter of joyous people at our expense.