(alt. title: emesis by words)
September is the cruelest month, not April.
Front yards are sordid and unkempt, frazzled, for the fight to maintain a verdant lawn is out-muscled by the sun. The nights are no longer wholesome, save December, and the air begins to chill and thin and the blankets are summoned from the closet.
School begins to reopen, a non-pejorative condition, however its influence on the honest faces of children is infectious, turning smiles into a pale sense of foreboding.
Who was this man who held such a bleak estimation of April? April is optimistic; itâ€™s fresh. It awakens the sleeping, and tears down the old, and bathed every vein in swich liquor.
But September is portentous.
Gas prices rise unchecked. H3 hummers run over the elderly. Storms come and quickly rattle the nation–except in Washington where there is a slight delay.
Summer is on its final lap. Fall is near. The leaves will fall. The temperature will fall, so will the forlorn summer spirit.
September is the cruelest month! Never April.