![]() ![]() ![]() 20, even The Monster Mash, or the Misfits, my life is unabashedly enraptured by the nostalgia of manufactured fright. Once the autumnal gods blow forth the cool air, carrying with it their fragrances of dry leaves, patchouli, apple spice, and the harvest, and pumpkins begin to grace doorsteps, the numinous in me is sustained by clichéd images of chilling awe graveyards (with or without decayed hands rising there from), howling wolves silhouetted by full moons, implied malevolent cackling of jack-O’-lanterns, as well as expectedly evocative music like Toccata and Fugue, Swan Lake Op. ![]() In some manner my literary, musical, and aesthetic sensibilities transmogrify with the season. ![]()
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