"Beware the autumn people.
For some, autumn comes early, stays late, through life, where October follows September and November touches October and then instead of December and Christ’s birth there is no Bethlehem Star, no rejoicing, but September comes again and old October and so on down the years, with no winter, spring or revivifying summer.
For these beings, fall is the only normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond.
Where do they come from? The dust.
Where do they go? The grave.
Does blood stir their veins? No, the night wind.
What ticks in their head? The worm.
What speaks through their mouth? The toad.
What sees from their eye? The snake.
What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars.
They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. In gusts they beetle-scurry, creep, thread, filter, motion, make all moons sullen, and surely cloud all clear-run waters. The spider-web hears them, trembles—breaks.
Such are the autumn people." - Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes (1962)
Get lungs that do what they’re supposed to. Yours keep letting you down. They shrink down to nothing when you’re scared, when you need deep breaths the most. They are useless, failing organs. Replace them.
Don’t kiss the boy with no bicycle. Don’t kiss the girl with moon lips. Don’t kiss wild animals or atom bombs. Don’t kiss.
Remember metaphors are not bandages. You silly little girl, you think you’ve survived so long that survival shouldn’t hurt anymore. You keep trying to turn your body bullet proof. You keep trying to turn your heart bomb shelter. You silly thing. You are soft and alive. You bruise and heal. Cherish it. It is what you are born to do.
Remember you can leave. You can always leave. Take your baby, your backpack, get in the car and drive. Maybe to Brooklyn, to Oakland, somewhere you’ve always thought it would be romantic to call home. Come now, you promised yourself. You promised you’d live through this.
"Taylor tells me his favorite month is Septober
which he defines as the last two weeks of September
and the first two weeks of October. I like to call it
the Brunch of Autumn, or the impossibly crisp
Heart of Fall, or maybe just the time of the year
when the world becomes sane enough to understand
the flannel importance of pumpkin scones and hot
apple cider, the thrill of seeing your own steamy breath,
the best cup of coffee you’ll have tasted in months.
How even the trees shiver brightly, their leaves
refusing to disappear without a stunningly garish fight." - Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz, “Septober in Philadelphia”