The trenchant wraith of autumn has come to remind us of the year's reaping. We watch as flower petals, once vibrant, fade to dull greys and sick browns and we wonder if the same will not happen to us. Trees are set alight with brilliant yellows and shocking reds and explosive oranges, but we know that their firework performance is all too short and soon their branches will be naked and exposed despite their urgent proof of life.
Autumn is a time to pretend to smoke cigarettes on the sea shore, to take long walks that may be lonely, to allow your ears and nose to freeze, but never your heart. Its a time to shout defiantly that you will not die and you will not weaken, but also to know that you are wrong. For all things go but there is sublime beauty in our death.
Autumn is death's hot breath upon the earth, a dangerous lover's whisper of desire. This is summer's strip tease, a slow and erotic removal of all that once seemed valuable.
Autumn is a time for apple cider, scarves, and crunchy leaves. It is a time for heart racing adventures, hard reminders, and unrefined poetry.
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