Deep in my artistic harmonies, I cannot understand why life does what it does to us. It curls around my personable certitude, making me forget who I am and what I can do. It gives me fresh aches and trials to bear, flush in the September bloom of Despair. A friend tells me, “I am alone,” and so I share her suffering. I, too, shed the tears of the life of one cruelly misunderstood. I stand with her in her shoes, bearing the crucifixion that would try to completely break me. September is over. A new month begins.