Shmeagol died. His funeral was a kind and loving effort. Amanda played her flute. I've been confused lately, confused and trapped-- my lungs seem to flux between a permanent state of either having no air or having so much that at any second my whole body might burst into a thousand smithereens that will soon turn to nothingness. My brain is filled with that smoky smell that is peculiar only to autumn and crunchy leaf crumbs, in shades of crimson and mustard and fire. Oh, and lately I like to hear about love; tell me who you love, tell me all about it.