The fall used to be my favorite time of year -- all that stillness, all the silence. The way the wind whipped through the trees as birds exploded into grey skies; buttoning up coats and rosy cheeks. It was all the quiet, all that breathing room. The way the sun slanted behind the hills, burying itself in the same grave every evening. And most of all, the wind whistling through the trees at night. It was as if they had their own secret language that they could decipher, and I was just the observer, just slightly on the outside looking in.

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