speak when you're spoken to

the moments in the fall where a deserted, leaf-blanketed street seems to cry lightly with its dampness are perhaps more in number than this nation’s glut of emo boys deserve. after all, i just experienced two such moments this weekend. one of these was special, however, in that the background noise of the occasional wind gust was by-and-by infiltrated with the trebly notes of brassy depression-era music. as i found my footsteps falling in 4/4 time i considered walking back and forth for a while along that same strip of road. the main reason i decided against doing so was not because i would have appeared demented to any passersby, but rather because repetition corrupts memories.