Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Sleeping Unicorns

She wanted to sink into the city. There is a sort of transparency here, a luminosity; the trees are gray, as blank as doves, and alight. They are bony and balding, their little snippets of red and orange hair hanging by tips. Roads seem to sparkle in the dim fog. Now the mornings are like weak coffee, dark and without substance.

Driving through the night with him, she thought that the car ride mustn't end, not here. The fall is too glamorous, the landscape too greedy for souls, the wind far too quick and the car interior far too heavy.

Fall brings all sorts of little memories to call. The smell of leaves ushers in visions of blanket tents, the dawn of early runs in the prime of high school days. Everywhere the world is calm and in hiding, idle thoughts the only live beings in this dying world. But yet, it is pleasant; there is a joy in this season.

She wants to watch this movie. Badly. For some reason it seems seasonal and appropriate. There are unicorns and fond times of mothers baking fall treats, and ponderings of where the wild things are.



In her mind she's still 12. Fall makes it so.

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