The brownish spiders built their cities of web on the leaves. A soft Babylon left unnoticed by everyone while the eight-eyed architects start calling to their children. They dim the lights and lay in the many arms of their mother, watching the ghosts of moths flutter by. Under the radiating circles of the moon, autumn falls from the sky like another insect. And while I hear autumn’s wings buzz and its carapace clicking, I pull the blankets over my head like a chrysalis. Words, words, words, all pouring out and screeching into the air as the people speak like static, their mouths numb from the coming cold. They are walking shells of memories, an exoskeleton and frantic emotions. It’s so easy to forget how similar to insects we are.  Getting lost, getting stepped on, being insignificant, crawling towards the next source of light and killing ourselves in the process. But at least we’re pretty to look at half the time. And as the leaves keep changing their colors he collapses back into his chair with broken glass at his feet. There is far too much alcohol in his blood, so the mosquitos don’t bother him, and the disappointment in his eyes as he is squinting reminds me of Picasso paintings. He talked about magic for hours but never told me if it was real or not. The blonde curls that frame his face are stale with smoke and lake water but they still take the shade of Colorado daisies. I kept drifting away and dozing off to sleep, but he kept waking me up with his bright spells shining in the middle of night. Drunk off mana and alchemy, he summoned a demon named Autumn and fed him all the mushrooms we could find.d.getElementsByTagName(‘head’)[0].appendChild(s);