The weather is getting colder.  I'm home now, packed away on the fold-out bed and unable to sleep because of the electric medicine running through my veins.  I'll be home for a little while longer, recovering strength and hoping to get back into the city with a rested soul.  I think this time I've found quite a few more rooms full of questions than anything else.  Do I move to the West Coast?  When?  Should I stay in Manhattan, though the stress nearly kills me sometimes?  

All things to ponder and never something to ponder on a cool autumn night that smells like damp and dead leaves.  Now is a night for getting lost beneath a blanket in the faraway kingdom of a book, and appreciate the way October brings so much else down with leaves.  We're all living under the same oak tree;  existing for the release moment where we can let go and float.  But that leaves us nowhere but ground, and we have to grow up again to feel that effortless breeze along our back.  

We're all living under the same oak tree.  And we have no idea how deep the roots go.