Winter

It's almost winter. Leaves once green turned red and orange, and now they are an expired brown that, when driven over by the wheels of a filthy diesel truck, disintegrate into a suffocating dust.

I've noticed that every year around this time, I feel like I'm drowning in a thick, inescapable despair. Everything is drab and heavy. I'm incapable of looking at the silver lining of people's ill-conceived behavior, which is either depressingly disconnected or sometimes outright malicious. Then I realize that everyone is but an illusion, a cosmic mirror exposing me to myself. Seems like a good time to throw in the towel.

All the while, things continue to trudge along - cars, office buildings, conversations, like the revolting hum of fluorescent lighting.

It's almost winter, the time of death, when the maggots inside of stale coffins shiver from the wet cold.