Autumn leaves, bound by warm whispers and tussled by grey matter.
Like broken hearts or slinking stingrays.
Blood that stirs, flesh that feels.
Air that hums, and us.
Sometimes I am seized with the desire to be illogical, irrational, and irreconcilable; but in my far-fetched streams of consciousness, and before I wake up, and to a friend of my baroque tendencies, there is a little whisper of sense; I hope.