As people huddle their scarves closer, the music through the leaves no longer has the lightness of spring, or the deep richness of summer; it is now the raspy voice of near brittle leaves as the warm weather gives way to autumn’s cool winds and grey skies.
As I stand outside a window, candlelight syncopates to a melancholy Miles Davis, wafting outwards with its spicy cinnamon air. I let it caress my cheek, a sad sympathetic warmth, mourning that winter now draws near.
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