It's the same every autumn. Maybe the air nips my exposed fingers first thing in the morning, or a weighty sky presses upon me the thought that a season of perpetual twilight is approaching, and I realise that if I want to write something appropriate for winter, the solstice, Christmas, the season of good cheer etc., I'd better get on with it. My intention is always to write something profound or beautiful, but it never turns out that way. However wonderful the piece I have in mind is, the re...
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