The scent of sere leaves cascading through the rushing breeze of the wing seems familiar to my nose. This vision of the mystical scene makes others serene but not me. I suddenly realized how time here in earth quickly dashes like an alacritous lightning striking the vast plateau of swaying grass. The rapid percussion of falling leaves looks like it follows a sorrowful tone that is playing with an uncertain kind of rhythm. As the rainfall of leaves drops,  it synchronize with the sudden presence of the pain buried deep within my jar of thoughts. Five years had passed but since I last hold your cold arm before your vault is buried in this place. I miss the feeling how love struck us the first time we met here in Chicago, in front of the resto, in front of the first street. I miss how I make you know how important you are to me. Now, all I can do is to make you know that your grave is always covered with the bouquet of flowers that I always brought you. Maybe, the channel between our souls are still connected. Tell me how can I forget this deep abrasion in my heart if this is the season. It is autumn and indeed, autumn is so cruel because it awakes the pain when you say goodbye to me and embrace your death. Nobody knows how hard for me to live if every year, autumn is always part of the year.