The southward flight of migratory birds is so silent.
Though sleepless in the slightly chilly autumn night,
I still pretend to dream, to wander in untroubled sleep.
— Lately I often lie awake deep into the night. Is it age? Memories of people and things from the past surface unbidden, yet everything feels further and further away. Humans are clouds on the horizon, drifting alone!
Autumn Night, Sleepless Used to solitude, yet life is not always that way, is it in the autumn night the mountain wind carries a slight chill the human world stays awake a tribute to all the simple beauties quietly fading away
— It seems to be an ongoing departure, read, no need to reply. In this world of ours, you understand, the only explanation is no explanation. Days are ordinary, fine! As the weather cools, let us speak casually.
The future stares us down — our deaths like patient portraits.
Old bottles keep the faith of odd sediments, a natural rite of rot.
Anger wrapped in casual, practiced grace — a polite face for a vicious circle.
At last we speak in splendid moral clauses, fluent in our own absolutions.
O glorious souls — who labor to fall, striving downward with terrible zeal, debased yet grand — how you long to peep at the world’s unceasing suffering.
Autumn arrives; name for me which leaf will fall first.