What is it about the changing of the seasons that is frightening? Is it the dryness of conversation? The new events that lie ahead? Perhaps a new wardrobe that you’re too insecure to give a go? No, no, no, that’s not it at all.

They say the world will end tomorrow. The skies will be unlatched. The ground will unfold. The whole earth will tear itself in two just to show mankind that they are not living up to our deity’s pipe dream. So what is it that alarms you? The mis-closing of a lover, a friend, a mother. The lover doesn’t realize, doesn’t care to know, doesn’t care to change. The friend is enduring a modeled future. The mother, well, the mother is dead and warning from the apex of clouds or the base of the flames screaming, “REDEEM! REDEEM! YOU HAVEN’T MUCH TIME, YET ALL THE TIME!” And who is it that cares to unravel the webs from their ears, I know that I am not one of them. This, perhaps, is a time to judge what it is that is important to that sack that you wear on your shoulders when ticking time begs for mobility. I will carry an empty backpack, not a pair of slacks, not a simple shirt to soak up newer sweat, not even a rusty toothbrush mentally scarred with plaque. This is because I know that with every place I visit–with intentions to stay for a trial–will put its own requirements into my backpack. There will be alternative friends. There will be new obligations that wean previous necessities into, what is it, you ask? Garn.