there is a chill in the room. i can’t find the open window, but my normally-warm hands are cold, and it makes it hard to type.
i don’t know why my hands are always warm. i don’t know why whenever my hands are cold, i am either sick or there is something wrong. usually i don’t know why.
maybe it’s the way the sky is overcast, with pale blue sprouting up between vast amounts of grays and whites. maybe it’s how the wind whipped and stung cheeks, and how it tossed around the dainty leaves on trees, testing resilency. occasionally, a leaf will be broken off, and thrown up, up, then down, in a glorious show. we know the leaf is destined to hit the ground, but we don’t know when or where or even the manner in which it will do so. all we have predetermined is that the leaf will fall. and maybe it’ll twirl twice and drop. maybe it’ll flutter hopelessly and get thrown onto a front porch or a balcony. maybe it’ll soar, higher and higher, until it is sucked into the screaming engines of an airplane, destined for places unknown. will the leaf be okay in the end?
who cares? it’s just a leaf.