All those colours.
As I write this we’ve already passed the inflection point, each day now slowly melting into grey. Gone are the explosions of light, the luminescent trees against a black canvas of roiling clouds. Small supernovas in their brief howling climax, dead from northern winds and a fading sun.
As I write this only pictures remain, splashed in red, gold and brown.
Tomorrow the day will be shorter — again.
Tomorrow we venture further into the pale.
