Memory Is Like Fiction; Or

I Was Dying. Like All The Other People Who Live In This World.

The Morning Air Of The Pasture Turned Steadily Cooler. Day By Day, The Bright Golden Leaves Of The Birches Turned More Spotted As The First Winds Of Winter Slipped Between The Withered Branches And Across The Highlands Toward The Southeast. Stopping In The Center Of The Pasture, I Could Hear The Winds Clearly. No Turning Back, They Pronounced. The Brief Autumn Was Gone.

With Luck, It Might Even Snow For Us.

Maybe The Star Doesnt Even Exist Any More.yet Sometimes That Light Seems More Real To Me Than Anything.

My Priority Is My Books, At Least At This Point. What I Have To Do Is Write The Narrative Of This Time.