Stoplog Cabin in Autumn

In Autumn, the light tilts a certain wavering radiant, greens embrace more vibrancy, and the shadows dance around the fringes. Memories relapse and punctuations take on a more surrealistic fluidity, from which our feeble language springs. Despite a hundred treks into the heart of uncertainty, my tongue grows limp, and only the cameras diminished lenses capture a very pathetic authenticity, a glimpse of what is perhaps real. I must return to this alien, vernal land.

 

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