Minds are webbed, silver threaded and fragile. Viscous fibers cloak the skull, a decrepit cavern where thoughts catch on the walls. This cumbrance- it snags each passing memory, and in an impermeable catacomb they decay. Never to escape their somber grave. If I could untangle the lacework perhaps I could remember, but I've long since given up, it's fragile and jaded.
Now is the genesis of haunting ambiguity, the ruination of truth. A lesson to all not to let life's expanse cloud your existential perception of purpose.

I know you're tired of cliches.
I think about that when the sky flush's red and I wish you could see it too.
I don't wish although to tire your eyes with evanescing pigments, but I do desire to enchant you with anything I can find. When my neighbourhood is furnished scarlet, and leaves cascade with gentle pushes of the wind, I want to ask you if the world feels like a home to you. Is that a cliche too?
I wonder if you feel your skin change with the seasons. I wonder if you run you fingers along the grooves of a leaf and try to feel your own chemical changes as the months go by. Do you admire Its splendour? Do you admire your own splendour?