I like this dull kind of day, the city’s sharp edges disappearing behind a smokescreen of fog. Outnumbered by apartment towers, the trees shiver a little in the autumn wind. They stand half-naked, brave enough to shed all outer appearances.


The earth will outlive our ego. Concrete, bricks, mortar—our inflexible attempts at permanence, almost endearing in their naïveté. This hammering industry of more is at once nailing itself down, while racing ahead. Big-shot bloating. Gloating. Buses, planes, trucks, cars—cell phones—all rushing to take us somewhere, somewhere other than here. But we are still here. Heavy with fear. And hunger.


Today, the trees bend and dance their dying dance, shaking it all loose, letting go. I love their skeleton shimmy, their leaves littering sidewalks like burnt offerings. They make their own music, too. It rustles softly beneath our unconscious clamor, sounds like freedom, gently exhaled. Their songs, like sleepy dreams, are dying to be reborn. Their songs are falling all over forever.

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