There’s something about the autumn air and every time it nears. As though it aches to remind me that I’m nearing the winter of my life. And I’m just twenty-four. The musty scent of leaves turning, the chill in the breeze; it’s barely perceptible, and yet I feel it with all the weight of water pressing down the chest of a drowning man. And I don’t know, never have, whether it’s life or it’s death: this thing that fills me so completely and yet leaves me so wholly empty; so fiercely yearning for something more.
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