(From my sketch book.)
The council do not seem to have collected the fallen leaves so much this year. They gathered, dried, blew around and are now turning to slippy messes. One feels seasonably melancholy. Until one falls on ones hoop. It feels like the debris of twenty three, seasons come and go, we pop up and think none of it would make sense without us to see it. is that hubris or just self-awareness? Either way, its slippery.
