Autumn

The leaves in Seoul are falling just as the once mighty sun has begun to meander from its losing battle with darkness. Trees swirl into waves of tangerines and yellows. Green hands blossoming into red hot hues as if in protest of death, or maybe a swan song, a burst of bravado before falling back to earth.


And I strut through the frosty wind, the long evenings with the tickity-tock of my year-old boots. I say, I love this best of all. Boots and coats. Dark thights that give slutty skirts opaque respect. A sudden slap of air to my face.