The autumn, to me, has a mysterious and magical feeling of severe loneliness riding on its gusts of wind and playfully sneaking inside of its rattling leaves; a scary sort of loneliness that seems as if it has always been here and will outlast all who experience it; an eternal loneliness that brings with it a pressing sense of futility; the sensation that there is no reward to be had in this life, but only a few peculiar moments, some that smile to us and some that squeeze out life like some sort of cruel relentless gravity. The harvest moons are like the scrolling credits at the end of a pointless drama addicted to itself, so vast and so vain. A selfish, adolescent landscape that flaunts its flowers and fruit, but ultimately becomes hungover, sick and regretful, breeding worms and eventually just wet soil and fungus. This sense of horror and loneliness that the fall always brings me is impossible to escape, but it bullies me so tightly into some sort of corner that I remember that I am helpless. And surrendering is such a relief.