It’s up to future officials to unpack all our failures’ base ironies. Failures of autumn, first. Where are they, let’s see... I’m not picking up any .. acoustics. Where I am, they don’t hook up to 
let supplies flow out since they  
make love too much — therefore and because every irony wants to stay on a comfort-slope, to live well too. Staying this relaxed can lull you into a non-jazz tranquility or into resorting to the language instinct’s sentimental counterreactions.  
 
That’s failure up to now.