Autumn has arrived here with the blind regularity of the season, with the anger of the rain, with the migratory ships of clouds across the sky, with the steadfast solemnity of the trees. The first of them leave — the leaves, depressive, or perhaps those that believe in the afterlife of plants. I pass by them, pause, light a cigarette — I want to learn the secret of their patience. How do their spirits endure the fog, the dust, the toil of the city, and the terrible acoustic scratches? The sky is ever lower from the weight of the clouds. Words — dead soldiers in the encampments of solitude. Your eyes, ever more distant, while the landscapes howl from the death of loves.