It's pumpkin season.

I'm alone in a cold house; I fill it with candles to deceive my mind. The room smells like fresh baked cookies. Oh, how I wish my house was a bakery! I would ****** stranger's noses with my cinnamon cakes, feed the bellies of my neighbors, and recycle the crumbs to the mangy squirrels. But my oven is imaginary and the heater is broken.

There is much in my heart I seek,
I don't feel much like baking.