the car was hot with choking steam coming off the confused tangled of my mind, which was wrapped, all at once, in feelings of loathing, mistrust, doubt, apathy, and blind conviction.
windows steamed up and my broken headlights half-heartedly lit the way ahead, but I got home as the sun was ducking behind the spindly pine legs of its mother, the horizon, and I was no longer fixated on the cacophony within my brain.
the trees were bending and shaking and my phone warned me that there would be winds to cut the bone.
the first signs that winter was coming, it was November 1st.
the sharp winds ran through the trees and through my ears, straight through, across the hills and valleys of my mind even into the deepest canyons where moral men fear to delve, and there it cleansed me of my disheveled madness.
for instead of many, there was now two: those selves that jockeyed for principality and the settled self that I would one day become.
each day the winds bring me closer to the latter of these two end points. the howling sound merely the friction of a transformation pushing a soul beyond its limits.