autumn

Last night, I dreamed that a house fire was slowly eating away at my bedroom. What to save? I stressed as the flames flicked away at my windowsill. Immediately, I dove into the back of my closet and hefted a shoebox of journals into my arms, sprinted them to a safe place, and left them to run back for more. People were all around, but no one was helping me. When I returned to the journals, a woman I didn't know had picked them up and clapped them so thousands of little tiny leaves fell out; the journals were now empty. I had no time to sweep up the leaves - the words - much less hope to get them back into the same order.

It's a clue, but to what? Guard them more carefully? Or start writing more?