Autumn thrusts itself upon us like a repugnant memory, suppressed from years of careful disbelief. Why is the season of decay the most beautiful of them all? Maybe we are missing something about death that the universe keeps persisting we understand.

A single leaf detaches from the unity of a giant oak branch and makes a slow journey to the ground. How little must the deteriorating leaf feel, without the inclusion of its entire kind. The gestured passes through the thin, crisp air make the last trip one of pleasant desolation.

The solitary leaf is you, and the solid oak all of humanity;
For we all must live as one, and die alone.