Last Chance.

It's one of those weekend days, you dream about while you're at work.

You begin the morning with a fresh conversation.

Followed by cheap breakfast.

And the blackest, bottomless, cup of coffee.

A walk to the grocery store.

Re-usable bag in tote.

Giant DJ like headphones.

And collar up on the jacket to protect yourself from the cold that has begun to settle in.

It's one of the last days of fall.

Almost everyone can feel it.

The neighbors quickly rake the remnants of leaves on their front lawns.

While others plaster their windows to keep warm during snowy winter days.

All I can think of is the months that are to come.

And the months I will leave behind.

Some of my favorites.

The leaves are a solid gold color.

No longer, red or orange.

They lie dead on the roadside, awaiting their monthly pickup.

I, meanwhile, patiently watch all of this, in a room permeated with candles and a warm dog in my lap.

Tracy Chapman spins on the turntable and hauntingly lights up the room.

As I think to myself silently.

Is this the beginning of something new and great?

Or am I destined to repeat my mistakes and long for a way out?