I should say that fall is a very challenging time for me. I guess you could call it seasonal affective disorder, but I just call it being out of sorts. It feels like a slow death, fall, especially in September. So I haven't been writing very much, here or elsewhere.
Depression is slow and languid. It sits with a cigarette smoldering in its hand. It waits for you. It is patient and kind in its way. Depression will be there when everyone else has gone.
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