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problème.

What does one do with wonder?

I walked for miles today through a city misted over by ocean and fall, past girls running in high black boots and bearded men singing in riddles, and all beneath a low and smoke-grey sky. The leaves were dying in auburns and golds, and the air pulled my breath from me, and I walked. The dark and the coming cold shoved me stubbornly home; I did not want to go.

How does one translate beauty? What does one do with something so perfect that description is ruinous and cruel?

October has fled so quickly.