There is a darkness that supersedes night. It’s the feeling of the first bite of crisp Autumn air, some night in mid-October, when your senses are flooded into remembering you’re alive. The sharp gasp that becomes a deep, all-encompassing breath; the chasm down which you fall, from which, once you have fallen, there is no emergence. At least not until Spring, when the chrysalises become butterflies and the girls become women, and the dreams of Winter begin to come to fruition, blooming with the dandelions. For, while they may be weeds, no flower is as lovely as a wish. So, while the girls remain girls, the homeless chop firewood and dream of a hearth. Summer will fade, with its chimes of laughter and heaving hot breaths, and the Autumnal twinkle of Mother Nature’s eye will light up at the sight of the dance of the leaves with the wind, a sensual play of the season’s passions.