he loved the autumn. he loved the irony of visitors coming to the mountain and the way they reveled in the colours of slow death, the smell of decay on the wind. nature's death is a masterwork, he liked to say or think. a bird swooped below him. he looked down from the cliff at the people looking at trees and they looked remarkably like ants gathering around a too-large carcass.
seeing the tops of birds seemed indecent, for whatever reason.
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