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Autumnal Bliss
Martyr
wilowisp
Morose clouds skim the lower edges of the sky, and where they tear, inconsistent rain begins to fall. Nights are best spent with the windows closed and the blankets thick, but maybe the day will spin slowly towards the sun enough that just a jacket will be needed by noon. Things grow crisp. It is familiar.

And here, in my new home, familiar is important, because I'm not used to stairs all the time, doors that are further apart, and the frightening sense that this is all indeed and in deed, ours. Strange windows beckon me to watch the rain falling, my constant joy of wet drops just on the other side of a pane of glass. The windows become my friends, and pass the good word along to shelves and closets and corners and the kitchen. "He knows the Autumn," they will whisper. "Treat him and his love with warmth."

I sleep well here. It is a good sign.

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