A single tears runs down a cheek that cannot yet bear a beard. The ghosts of autumn race across the hills, rattling the skeletons of a once beautiful forest, stirring the leaves from their slumber upon the eternal earth into a lifeless lively dance of death. Above the sky watches, man-like, not crying. Waiting, watching, waiting for the ghosts to pass and leave all in silence again, for the dance to be over and the trees to ossify or their once tender faces to rot upon the ground and be received into the earth. And so he walked, through the dying of the year, and he cried at the beauty, and at the feelings of loneliness that welled up inside him, and he wanted to love and be loved and know warmth and tenderness and joy and dancing, and to come at last to remember everything, each leaf that lay upon the ground, and the hope of memories made and yet to be came upon him, each leaf that danced was a face, and he would dance until he died. No one would ever take the dance away from him.