a month has been swallowed, barely chewed. days move backwards, behind. the evenings grow shorter and the ache for a past throbs. Fall—descends aloof to the wings of Icarus. and yet somehow i survive another season. withdrawing into myself as the coldspell pushes forward. i am with someone, yet feel so alone. I am alone with myself and feel most comfortable. I have nothing but few words. and on days like these, they sit loaded, waiting to be dropped.