It's a special time of year when the squirrels land and crunch the leaves beneath them in the next yard over and your dog races towards the fence through a garden of fallen foliage to try to protect his fence.
My thoughts run together like a train when you're stuck at the light and it never seems like it'll be over as the train cars pass slowly in the funeral procession of wasted time just sitting at that god ****** light.
It's a special time of year where you want to be alive, where the minerals inside are finally in stride and no longer collide to invoke another suicide praise the saints and praise the Angels for failed suicide inside my mothers home she cried for nights miles away uncertain of whether or not id finally get it right, my god, I never got it right, I've never gotten anything right, the scars on my wrist tell a story but they don't sing in reverie.