leaves on benches.

new clothes and books and pens and loose leaf paper and lamps and rugs and other fifteen dollar furnishings.

pretending last year never happened and we've always been friends.

wind.

rain.

cigarettes never tasted so good.

perversly dark skin hidden again under fabric.

jackets, not coats, not bare arms.

anticipation.

golden sunlight through the branches of trees.

the juxtaposition of contentment and rebellion as we rest after summer but try to expend all the energy that will only make us petulant, come winter.

october 31 and the last revel.

season premieres that seem like they could be novel and fascinating, before we grow jaded again and realize it's always the same.

drinking whiskey in the park at night.

the big, cold moon.

no matter what, it always comes again.

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