In the mornings I feel the cold creep in; it lingers in my bones, brittle as the hulls of stinkbugs I crunch on my way to the toilet. I can smell the cold go right to my brain. Chill undulates in waves of numbness which lets me know I’ve finally taken a turn toward something beyond misery. Why do you find autumn so sleepy? A crispness in the air cleans me past the cold creek which is my religion, and again I trek on. At this point, I can be sure I might never be sure of a thing in this life; however, as my godmother says, I must take action. What better to replace the longing, nagging feeling of being a husk than sailing headstrong into something…anything?