Dear Diary,

Apologies for the neglect. I don't know what I am these days. Failed poet or failed academic? Pick which one.

There are days I want to sit on a bench and just watch the leaves drift. Some people say that is a life not lived, but have you seen the leaves fall on a dry day when the sunlight is just so, and the leaves are the color of old gold, chipped clay, dried rose petals from a sweetheart's bouquet? The air is chill and nostril-prickling, sweet with the scent of decay, of summer's bedding down, its greens and purples inward-bound and buried.

I can sit on a bench for weeks, and some people call that a life not lived, and there is a part of me that agrees, and another part that rages.

Yours truly,
Phil

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