The best part about the fall (when the leaves paint the street and the reds and yellows actually stain the sidewalks) is how it brings out creativity. For me, November is walking across the city buried as deep into my jacket pockets as possible and thinking. For every bit that the summer represents “where can I go”, the winter represents “what can I create”.

This is osmotic expression; this is the feeling that something is only worth doing when it is difficult or has a reason. Like love songs that are only written when your heart is broken, and revolutionary thinking that only happens when you are oppressed, the winter is the perfect time for expression because when you look around you, the city is baron.

The cosmic irony in the seasons is that I spend the winter at my most creative, longing for the potential of the warm summer months ahead, and by the time they arrive I am so free from the confines of winter that I cannot see the potential I longed for and normally waste it.

I am looking forward to the winter. There are ideas to develop, new surroundings to inhabit, and friends to enjoy. I hope I start writing again, I feel sick for it.