Novembers. While they are splendidly lovely for others, they are not so for me. Every eleventh month of these years, they pot in store lurking silhouettes of mutilation. Order reverses, detachment of control and mornings filled with hell breaking loose alongside the heart and the head that clog every surviving vein. We call these lessons. I call this my destiny. Mine, is to search - an immaterial price for being headlessly in love with the idea of being in love and its reciprocation.

This November's start feels no different from last years. I was sure I found my sunlit November. Was, but I'm still in that indifferent familiarity of a search that I am compelled to keep at arm's length.

Samson came to my bed. Told me that my hair was red. Told me I was beautiful and came into my bed. Oh I cut his hair myself one night, a pair of old scissors and a yellow light, and he told me I'd done alright and kissed me till the morning light. Oh the morning light.

And Samson said,"You are my sweetest downfall. I love you first. I loved you first between the stars came falling on our head. But they're just old light."