Now it is autumn and the falling fruit and the long journey towards oblivion. The apples falling like great drops of dew to bruise themselves an exit from themselves.
The acrid scents of autumn, Reminiscent of slinking beasts, make me fear
It's autumn ... and everybody feels like a disembodied spirit then.
The autumn always gets me badly, as it breaks into colours. I want to go south, where there is no autumn, where the cold doesn't crouch over one like a snow-leopard waiting to pounce.