every year i forget how much there is to love in october: the colours, the smell, the sudden gusts of wind, the leaves, the fruit. the whole wild, intemperate dance in the face of decay and death. october is a celebration. of what has been and what is yet to come.
(no, it's november that stretches the spirit, december that sends it under, january in which i attempt deep-sea diving en apnée and february which nearly drowns me, every year)
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