I can no longer be confident in the veracity of those words that I need to write. Some are crowded into the corners of my heart, others are buried beneath them. There are others that are still fresh and wet. Then, the smooth breezes of Spring caress my short fingernails, tickling the quick before proceeding to wrap their suddenly sultry tongues around all of the fingers of my responsive hands. That inciting spot can determine the fateful development of every word that follows. Just like the painting that was made for you, even before I saw you, like the evocative colours that were stroked on white stock before your arrival I feel the cold rain on my shivering skin, the mantle of depressed evenings settling upon my slumped shoulders. This is the Autumn that I wrote of, thirty years since. As it begins to rain, once again, I am compelled to ask you: "Where do I begin and how can I articulate my memories?"