Something about fall makes my Unseelie side advance.
I want to grow my nails into razorblades, cultivate my scruff into a scraggy beard, complete with a crow's nest. I want to eat and eat and eat and fill my belly into a mound of lard, then retreat into a dank shadowy cave with the grubs and worms. I would curl up in the straw, let the fleas feast on my flesh, while my rotten attitude and irritations fester, and I crush Englishmen's bones into powder between my yellow teeth.
Do not enter my cave, for I am hibernating, and the cascading leaves are my insulation. This frosty draft is my breath, and the fey of the night dance on my doorstep, and we are all servants of Mab.
At least until spring.