Week after week of empty pages. You call me on Monday; I let the phone ring.

Week after week of rain — the Fall kind, that precurses only greyness and death, and the endlessly frozen days to come.

On Tuesday, I sit and remember Spring rain — green waterfall rain, Persephone rain.

On Wednesday, I look in the mirror and see that every hair on my head has turned silvery-grey. All the pages are on fire; they fall to the ground like burning leaves, leaving a house full of books without souls.