Trying to understand the flattened and unflatteringly dull and dreary cargo of impassively discarded leaf litter that I'm delicately attempting to navigate along the sidewalk, I occasionally kick up piles of the crinkling crustaceans as I want some commotion from them, they lose all motivation when they flutter on down, that's all they ever wanted, to touch the ground like we all want to touch the clouds. I get a lot from observing leaves when they are imprisoned, I don't believe they should ever be released. I stroll along squinting suspiciously at every single scrunched up and wrinkled shape lying there all drained of vitality and shrunken, not reaching out from above, quivering in the sky, they are lying there content, it's sickening! They win the leaf lottery every year, it's a rigged game, autumn's abominably admirable grand arrival depends on their shallow sacrifices, it muscles on in once enough of the flimsy freaks have severed their twig-contracts and as poignantly poepathetically as the post man curbstomping your cat after he delivers a parcel, Mr Autumn is here to recarpet! Just because he uses your own doormatted doorstep as the scene of the crime, it don't excuse the distasteful din of it, in the parcel is schrodinger's cat, because it's gonna happen again next year!