“The leaves had all fallen out by mid-December like they always do, I guess. This year I thought it was pretty at first, then I hated it, then one day was so clear and blue and beautiful that I loved it almost as much as I loved Portsmouth in October. Now I don’t know anymore. It reminded me of feeling like I was in the right place, just for long enough that I felt it and believed I was. But I can predict the people as well as I can predict the weather here: for a month or two they’ll welcome me alternatingly with cold weather’s warm embrace, or dry, pitiful shuddering shoulders; the rest of the time they’ll be stiflingly uncomfortable to be around. I could never get myself synchronized. I finally knew what I could expect, but never knew exactly when to expect it. The leaves came to represent my emotions, in a lot of ways. Once a week my neighborhood’s foliage and greenery was manicured and polished, all year round, and in the fall it seemed my emotions would turn a bright and deep hue, then slowly shift through nearly the entire rainbow, only to fall out and end up a wet, souring, browning amalgamation, waiting to be blown on artificial winds into disenchanted piles, and finally run over with a lawnmower to save on fertilizer and plastic bags. And, for three years running, I would watch it all. I would sit at my desk and watch my emotions shredded uncaringly by ride-on mowers with startling grace. In a way it was lovely, and in a way I wanted to sacrifice myself to save those leaves.”
So, as the title implies, I don’t know what this little passage is. I wrote it yesterday, and it seems pretty enough (I tried to write it as a sort of prose-poem), but I don’t know what I could ever use it for. So I figured I’d let you read it.
See Andrew Whiting. Read Andrew writing. 
I really like this one, too.