Blue skies, the slate of cold, becomes an epoch.
We are the willing observers of a seasonal deposition of time.
We have become the centre of a timeless wonder we cannot explain.
But the beauty lies in the fact that not everything can be explained.
A world without mysteries is a dead world that cannot thrive.
Acquiring knowledge lights the way to dead ends of the imagination.
Autumn opens up new gaps in the firmament where knowledge once closed them.
Death becomes a spectral eminence of transitional force, no longer a blank wall of total closure, no longer the terminated life cycles of the brilliantly inclined.
Autumn presents us with this confrontation. It makes the everyday summons a series of cantrips.
The world is full of a mnemonic chanting.
The destitute madness of ourselves.
It must end.
The desperation of our personal demands continues without purpose.