In my previous years, the autumn season had little or no significance to me. It served as a mere reminder that the gaiety I once knew in the summer was now beginning to surrender to the coldness of the late October sky. This past summer was a typical one similar to most of the others that existed prior to it. Once again, I’d found myself drunk on the colorful youth and innocence of the season, and consumed by its splendor that seemed eternal. I ended the summer with hope promised by the silly euphoria I’d experienced all season. Already, August had become a sweet memory, buried beneath a grave comprised of brittle September leaves, and as September too began to fade, the incandescent spirit of the summer began to melt away in it’s twilight. By now, it was already late October and I’d found my way back into the arms of a bitter reality. Standing under the obscure autumn moon, in the honest darkness of the night, I remembered the hope born out of the summer’s merriment, and I mocked myself for believing in its promises once upon a time.