first conkers of the season

I went on a run around Finsbury Park today and saw my first conkers of the season. I had to stop and pick them up. One was still part-in it's spiky casing; the spikes scratched me throughout the rest of the run, jagging through the material in the pocket of my joggers; and I liked the pain, because it felt right in unison with the tears that flew because I can't believe it's a year in November since you died, mate. And the passing of the seasons Hurts. Nothing flowers like it used to anymore. And Finsbury Park was your favourite park, too; I was Blagg chasing squirrels; I was all the love your heart could hold, running through that park, I'm scared if I stop all the molecules of me would just fall apart. If I had my way, we'd all be buried in green coffins when we die, with seeds in our mouths, so that we become forests and everyone would know we're connected forever.