My thoughts are like locus leaves in Autumn. Small, insignificant, trailing behind me, unnoticed, stuck to the soles of wet shoes. With a strategy to usurp my habits, my words, my preferences, they lie on the floor, and can only be swept or vacuumed, contained in a clearly marked trash bin. If I try to pick them up, one by one, they will crumble and spread. They must be banished in a rush of wind. In one fell swoop. Otherwise, they will reign supreme.