Yellow sunset in the distance, fallen leaves announce the start of winter, but not yet. Guitars mourn the parting of life, not yet gone, but so far away already.
If all those days had stayed, I wonder... but days can't stay.
Like smoke, they drift away into the distance, and I can only smell their aroma as they pass by, and then not anymore. The fire burnt, the smoke drifted, and all that's left is ashes, memories and the inevitable mourning to which I am obliged.
More days are to come, and they, too, are to go, and one day the train stops and we must come out. And out is nothingness, void, oblivion, nonexistence. There is only meanwhile.
Whereas during the meanwhile, nothing means (for meaning does not transcend into the next plane: nothing transcends), everything means for us, trapped in a temporary illusion. Meaning dwells in us and then dies; it means meanwhile, then stops meaning.
And meanwhile, we mourn meaning, for it will die, and we are certain that everything dies, but matter cannot disappear, so it doesn't die in the end, and yet we mourn, for we will not be there to see it later. Just later, sometime in the future, like old friends. We won't have any friends after we're gone, there will be no friends, only an arid everything that will mean nothing in the end (though there will be no end).
And there won't be autumn guitars after autumn.
