A chill is slowly works its' way up my spine; a forboding warning that my afternoon spent basking in Autumn's ethereal glow is to be blatantly hacked short. The scene before me has metamorphisized from vivid oranges and reds to a dismal and all-encompasing gray. Thunder tumbles across the landscape, rudely interrupting murmered conversations beneath oak trees; lovers whose half-vocalized professions of indescribable feelings are dismembered by nature's demanding rumbles. The lease has run out for those who thought the day belonged to them, and the sexless clouds choke the terrain in a blanket of amiguity.

Too eager to rape me of the sun's radiance, the bitter cold which hastily rushed in forces me to seperate myself from nature by a thin pane of glass. Tiny drops begin their slow matriculation upon the manmade transparency, and my vision begins to blur. Maybe tomorrow will be bright again.