Outside it is colorful, impersonal inside me. Surprisingly, it does not even hurt me, when I come to life. October is filling me with silence. Even autumn is not an event. He gets used to and no news in golden leaves and mist. October is a premonition for cold. Permeating expectation in the dark with a sunset, and the world is mad, in spite of his late dawn. I'll swallow it like a pill, treating my sore ego, as a final stage of a fertile stage, a mirage to a beach in anticipation of indifference. Every late-leavened fruit is harvested, but each falling sheet radiates a feeling. October taught me life - even at the end of making art.
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