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Leaves of the trees stripped to shadow branches scraping the sky like a D&C for the earth. Demeter's moods shift with my own now: I have lost my ties to Persephone of the summer joy. Samhain passed in a stupor, a fire, a view, and a swaggering, wavering stumble back to the place I lay my head? Home? Most days. I guess right now. Victoria's Secret: I will never compare to the illusion I weave around myself. And that's just fine. Rumblings and knives remind me this is real, and love's awkward smile that this too shall pass. Stasis sings a single note: resonant and inharmonious. Twelve hours until the complete turn around. Lets hang a wreath and some pretty baubles and call it Christmas. We call it Christmas when even yule has lost the ghosts of its meaning. No log to burn.