I feel drained of all eloquence, but I cannot stop the indeterminable power of The G-Cal.

dear chaotic good, dear glass bottles, dear pins & needles,

My professors keep telling me that it is best to start by stating the most obvious thing.

It is autumn now.

The trees have turned and the plants have started the long, slow descent into death. The earth is not yet barren, but the shocking colors that pull greedily at your eyes only seem to point more strongly to this. We are so full now because we will be so empty soon, they say. Life is always overcompensating for death, always forgetting that it is cyclic. There is no rush to empty the trees or deaden the grass. the frost is creeping slowly in.

At lunch, a checkered sleeve reaches for the napkins in front of me. Show me the coat you are attached to, I beg of the sleeve. But the arm within it has vanished, and I cannot find it anywhere.

Before class, the air is gelatinous. The leaves fall like nuts sinking to the bottom of a cake as it cooks. The batter was not mixed well enough. The nuts were not chopped finely enough. Gravity is stronger than the paper-thin membranes of the leaves. They fall with dignity, breath catches, phones come out of pockets. Everyone is entranced for just one moment, connected by this image like the many roots to the tree from which they come. 

A flock of starlings is called a murmuration. Golden leaves are small birds falling from the sky. When you think of autumn, you can hear the humming. The two are the same: the swishing of the leaves shaking against each other, & the rustle of their fallen brothers and sisters so far below. There is an eternity that stretches from the sky to the ground and we are doomed to fall through it. A kiss of life comes from the wind — but really it is the brush of death disguised, really the cold earth urging the birds to fall down down down.

Birds have hollow bones, the contortionist says.

This makes them fragile books, this makes them elegant leaves, the crowd murmurs.

The show is about to begin, comes the booming voice over the emergency audio system. This is just a drill. No immediate action is required. In case of a real emergency ............. The ringing stretches on into the silence but the leaves keep falling. The birds keep swarming. 

I am not the only one thinking about flying, it would seem. The fear of the air is universal. I am a golden leaf, and my tremors are passing over in waves to my friends all around me. I am clinging to this tree but my stem is weak and the winds are strong. I am in a state of suspension, I am alone; I am falling, I am surrounded. The balance must be maintained. Life is like a sinusoidal curve of clichéd statements. How can I discuss my suffering without being disgusted by it?

This is not art, this is a monologue and some of us have places to be.