The seconds pelt our paths as we inch towards the fall. The hour hands sound horridly harsh when the wind picks up the rustle of our steps on brown, bronzed leaves. And the hands clasped together, moist with dense anticipation, shudder ever so slightly. The clocks slow down, until they come to a stop the exact moment when moon melts down from the sky and onto our skins. And we ravenously treat ourselves, closer still, mocking time and jesting at fate. The euphoria rises atop tall tree-tops and ascends towards the heavens where it shines from the stars and urges us on. We lose the measure of our steps or the time left. And just when the fall comes, we willingly take the leap, vividly conscious of our beings, through each other. The fall no longer seems daunting.