Falling leaves are an October necessity, even if the sun beat down at this upper latitude in a high-80 swoon. This particular bout of introspection afflicting you is bought and paid for by the brain trust at Female Sadness, Incorporated.

The power of a secret is intoxicating. This fact is known on the page by the producers and the editors and the storyboard engineers, and in the blood by the sociopaths and amoralists and the shot-callers. The opposite of the secret - the emergent new category - could be summoned and cosplayed by the cirrhotically inclined copy writers with sleeve tattoos and a November trip to Cambodia and the it girls who, at 28, feel everything start slipping and go white at the thought of being out to pasture. Betwwixt the tongue and the teeth the cool new thing starts to flag and wizen, like a spazzy stabbed krylon balloon at a 2nd grade birthday party.

At least soulless ascent to power has come and gone. We all still can find photographs that have the punctum, even if none exist on the rolls on our own phones. Sometimes a good, vital sense of hatred helps to give that same sense of ripping through the fabric and setting things to rights.