I love autumn, but there seems to be no autumn. The world has gone suddenly from warmth, to wet, soggy chilliness. There doesn't seem to have been that slighty dry, cold, crispyness yet, where the leaves fall to the ground, into huge drifted piles, ready for kicking and crunching under foot. The leaves are falling, but they fall into a squishy heap of puddle filled mush. The sky is grey, yet it is still ever so vaguely warm. Warm, wet and gloomy. Where is the autumn that I love so? Where the leaves turn spectacular colours and float the ground like fairy dust, as I speed along under a canopy of technicolour trees. Where the world ignites in flame red, amber, gold, leaves twisting and turning in a wind blown fury. I want to jump in a pile of leaves, I want to stand under trees and let a multitude of colours float down around me. I don't want the rain, the rain that destroys my autumn, my childlike fun. The wind blows driving rain hard into the buildings, tearing leaves from trees, pushing sorrow into my heart. I wish for childlike fun. I wish to play and run. I want to kick leaves, make snowmen, be young at heart. Yet the rain, the greyness, the cold, fills me with an unnatural age, an unfamiliar feeling of maturity. It makes me sad, it makes me want to sleep, to hide away from the darkness and cold. I feel ill, the weather has brought with it a cold of dooom like proportions, I feel like I have cotton wool filling my body instead of my organs, and a hammer banging against my skull. I want to sleep. Sleep and hide away from the horror that is wintery gloom.