We dwell in a perpetual autumn; auburn leaves curl and sway. They frame our steps in halos, stale and rotten. They will never disintegrate. We dwell in a perpetual autumn; the sun, a smudge, as fields burn. Wax drizzles into rancid jack o'lanterns, because certain skills can't be unlearned. And it's all right to curse this wilting Earth. Don't be alarmed. As you inferred, our sorrows were conceived eternities before our birth. Crisis looming, crises ever pending. Beasts fatten and change their skins. Everything's in the process of ending, but nothing ever finishes. Chorus. Wasps spin drunkenly at the edge of every tin of refuse we arrange on boulevards. This confounds ghosts whose spectral dealings dishonour their hosts.