How I long for October, for golden leaves and brisk nights, when we might dance on the precipice of death, with summer youth still coursing our veins. Never else will there be such a celebration! A month-long parade of boyish charms and ancient wisdom, culminating all in a single eve, when we fear not that dark reaper, for we become him, slip into his course, dry bones and swing the unholy scythe as if drunk on church wine. But nay! We’ve something more sacred than the courage of any blessed bottle electrifying our excited nerves: Life! Were we ever so wonderfully aware of it? It is our march through the dying season that will make us alive, free us from our fear. We will be as kites, carried on autumn wind, transported above the coming blanket of winter snow, to land softly in spring’s blooming garden, longing once more for October’s embrace.