when autumn looms large and the sadness clutches at your chest like a frightened child i will drink the chill from your lungs--making the dark and dank air a temperature more manageable

when the embers of courage leave the hollow canyons of your generals' hearts i will be your Sancho Panza, holding your hair like a blood-red standard through all the taverns of Toledo and the lower east side, and we shall careen down the ancient alleyways fancying ourselves explores of bygone days...

pioneers of self-destruction. wandering the same flat worlds of our forefathers and squandering our harvests, worshiping only the wintry mountains on the horizon.