the thirst is quenched

The tree leaves tossle with the breeze, and one can’t help but succumb to their whispers, delectable autumnal susurrations strown about.

This Summer in December is unbearable, leaving me desirious of a violent cessation of continuity, a turbid trepidation in delirious desesperation.

So I am stepping out, going for a stroll along some untold road. Hold the mail and the wondrous tales of intricately embroidered affairs.