Soulard market on a warm and fuzzy afternoon. Mind is full of apples. Hands full of apples and apple cider.There is just something different about autumn in this sleepy town. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it leaves me with this twisting sensation between my clavicles. Maybe because I don't even remember the last time I sat on a park bench with this feeling of migrating geese overhead. Quietly worrying over this problem around a cup of tea and some warm milk. Saturday, and somehow I am not thinking too much about tiny astrocytes in the brain reaching towards the milky way, like old english ivy on these brick walls. This tired feeling, Van Winkle would have understood, of trees dying. It's suffocating.