weeknight and oct 2

This night is so stunning, it feels like I'm looking at the world through lilac-colored lenses. The orange sun's head struggles to stay above the horizon, but steady minutes pull it steadily down. I watched it drop in the west sky all the way home through finger-smeared windows, it looked like a radioactive orange. Now only its final screaming rays remain, then there will be nothing and this violet world will be black.
But how I love the fall. This is the climate I was meant for, when the air gently nibbles at my skin.
In the fall, any sound is melancholic, any scent is fragrant and rich. And it always smells like an apple tree is just around the corner.

Autumn is the most beautiful season of all. Season of terror and adventure, or of somber contemplation. Everything is poetic in autumn. Everything goes, anything goes. In autumn,
pain, suffering, confusion, fear, discomfort, cold, hunger, aches, spiders, demons, stenches, dirt, blood, death,
it's all poetry.
Autumn takes my problems and turns them into golden leaves, red leaves, green leaves, orange leaves, and I sit on my porch in the afternoon and watch them fall to the ground, fluttering in gusts of cool wind, with my pen in hand and there's nothing else I'd rather be doing.
Autumn turns my tears into freezing showers that I have to run through on my way to school, holding my coat over my head but still getting soaked, and I don't think I've ever enjoyed a sunny day stroll more than I enjoy running through the cold rain in the fall.

Leonard Cohen is the epitome of bittersweet. His words are ugly truth, and he writes like he's painting a picture, and every stroke makes you want to cry, avert your eyes, but then he says wait, look, this is beautiful, and it is.