There is something so inconceivably enchanting about Autumn,

The way the trees shed their miseries and prepare themselves to start again;

How the leaves, in alluring shades of autumnal red and yellow,

A fiery spectrum of comfort and warmth and everything in between,

Crunch beneath the soles of your feet.

The icy breath of the midnight sky bites your nose,

While the rain descends inexhaustibly, attempting to cleanse this city of its sins.

There is nothing more bittersweet than the first sip of coffee in the morning,

Just as the harvest sun climbs to its zenith, caressing the world.

Autumn is rich with the scent of old books,

The fleecy embrace of a knitted jumper,

The nostalgic being of a faded picture.

As the seasons begin to change and the leaves begin to fall, we will pick ourselves up

And we will start all over again. 



The woman crouched down on the floor, her bespectacled eyes affixed on the myriad of books that lined the towering shelf that stood before her. She was tall, thin and ‘atypically’ beautiful; she wore no makeup, but her skin glowed like the light of the harvest moon. Her eyes were large and brown, and she wore a resolute facial expression of intellect and mystery combined. After a minute or two of browsing, she extracted a book from the shelf. Stroking her silver pendant, which sat atop her plain black shirt, she marched over to the librarian’s desk, leaving behind herself something like a trail of fire.