The leaves fall and the sentiment blushes a red melancholy. It's in the piling of sediments, the layering of past actions, living things. It's in the chill in the air, forcing us to huddle, keep still and grit our teeth, to stumble into the grave of survival. It's a mourning for the momentum of a summer body, but now, settled and still. Things fall back into place, the arc of motion seems absurd. We are all now in the process of raking the leaves up among us, in the spaces where time was moist with voices and determined limbs, where fires were to dance around, to broach the subject of how we appear naked--not to devour history in shameless disarray.
I don't know what this means, but I'm suddenly dressed against the cold, and the smoke.