It's not really autumn anymore. There's too much bitterness in the wind, and my fingers go numb even when I wear my gloves. I noticed autumn. I noticed one day a sea of brittle leaves, blown and huddled at the foot of a mediaeval wall. They hadn't been there a few days before. I noticed the skeletal trees etched against the ashen cloak of low-looming cloud. Now I notice that the shadows never really shorten; they just disappear, joining the quickly drawn darkness. Smells of wood fire drift by and Starbucks have their red cups at the ready.
I made some wine and I sold some wine. I quit my job. I didn't write much. I read a little. I drank some whisky and some red wine and some beer and watched a month's worth of rain fall in a day. Crossroads appeared and I couldn't find the devil to sell my soul to.
And so I'm standing there, working out which road to take.
