G (@GC_GC)

I love rain on autumn mornings. There is little so exhilarating as a crisp, wet dawn, when the multi-colored leaves have fallen to the ground. It is only barely above freezing now. I close my eyes and inhale deeply of the cool, clean air. It is a beautiful morning. Objectively so, or thus I have decided. My coffee burns hot hrough the thin ceramic bowl. It heats my hands almost painfully, a delicious contrast to the brisk breeze that occasionally brushes my bare upper body. If it weren't for the coffee bowl, I'd be cold. My nipples betray my discomfort with more honesty than I ever will. I hate that I even have them. They irritate me. These are not the idle thoughts that I want to think. I am reminded of the battle in the creek bed near the village of Thurslee, during the campaign to break the authority of the Þing. The blood painted the yellow maple leaves that had blown into the depression, already slicked by the light drizzle of the grey, bracing morning. The red splatter contrasted against that striking yellow as starkly as my coffee against the wind. Such beauty. I earned a scar in that ditch.