There are so many leaves. Piles of them. I take pleasure in their abundance. More saints than you could ever dream of. Each one singular. Each one itself. Yellow, red, orange, parchment. They sail down in the autumn air like fearless sky divers. They are so trusting -- letting go, completely. Not questioning as I do... Will it be safe? Will I understand? Will it hurt? ... stalling, qualifying, questioning, instead of releasing and taking to the air ..."
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