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the distant stench of leaves burning fills her nostrils with misplaced malice.

there's something about autumn that reminds all of their transience, be it the yearly chore of all hallows eve, the trees shedding their colored leaves like dead skin, or watching rot and fungi blossom on the still corpse of roadkill on the side of a highway. in a way, she's jaded, she supposes- tired eyes lingering on the muddy sidewalk more than on the supposed beauty of the season. so, too, has she been told that this transience is in itself beautiful, but she's loathe to believe it.

the autumn will be gone again in so many months, but it will return. as long as the earth wobbles on its axis, it returns.

so, too, will she return to it.

she draws her scarf up around her face, to conceal her emotions- or, her lack thereof.

yes, it's transient, life. she knows that all too well. that's the only way, she supposes, she isn't beautiful.

long ago the pages of her diaries were so much fuller. the pen in her hand felt so much lighter. her body powered with some neurosis that made her afraid of forgetting. a shiver ran down her spine at the phantom sensation of running her hands through pages, pages, pages of paper- stained with useless ink. so naive. remembering was far more of a burden than just letting herself forget.

not that she didn't have a thousand autumns yet to come to feel self loathing in before reawakening in the spring.

she keeps walking, eyes on her shoes, ears on her footsteps, pace matching her heartbeat, putting coherent thought out of her mind.