Granted, but you discover someone has burgled you, and stolen away your pants, skirts, leggings, and indeed, any and all pantaloons, so you canʼt go out.
Granted, but the wind blows them into soggy heaps, and they rot away leaving only the autumn ghosts of their beauty, whispering of mortality.
I wish I lived on the slopes of high mountains overlooking a Northern sea, with strange cloud shapes cascading down the slopes and wild weather driving the waves into great plumes of spray against the rocks below.