Day 0

Like the last mango fallen from a raccoon ravaged tree, I too lie bruised and discolored on the wet grass of disappointment. Unlike that mango I probably will not be torn apart by ducks, but perhaps my fate is just as sad, but less visually comical.

Summer ends with the rain. The summer has been dry, but now the deluge comes to sweep away all that was made bright by the sun, and the slow heavy drops follow me even into my sleep. It's fitting that the dreams of summer are washed away, and all that is left behind are spider webs bedazzled with drops of water. They shine more beautifully diamond burst as they are, but in the morbid end they only tear gossamer from tree branches, until the art and artist lie tattered, a trampled battle flag of a war that no one remembers.

Summer ends and I feel I never even had the chance to say goodbye. Maybe I never even introduced myself to begin with.