The fog is my Luhrmannian windmill.

It approaches, it recedes, but always there is motion.

With each rotation, a page turns.

But have I been here before?

Pushkin writes: Or, unconsoled by the returning/ … /are we recalled to grief still burning/ by the new whisper in the wood?

If, as that earthly bank of clouds rolls in, our page turns to reveal something left unfinished… Is this blessing or curse?

For Pushkin at least, this was no missed chance for which, all praise, it might not be too late.

No, for him this new chapter is a far less charming déjà vu.

(And if we’re honest, many of us know this feeling well.)

So it’s hello Fall, we get your point… Something necessary’s been left undone?

Who are we to argue?

Will you lead or shall I?

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