The light was particularly fragile this morning, diaphanous strands that lay themselves so delicately on the towers of clouds. They dissolve before my eyes, in the heat of my hand, while the sun is a ghost in the sky, pale and bloodless. The morning feels tenuous as if I could run my fingers along the edges of its meniscus and watch it disperse into but a film of time. And I feel that gossamer light as frail as crumbling bones barely but a grazing on my cheeks, while the trees shiver barely covered by the gold of their leaves.

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