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“October, crisp, misty, golden October, when the light is sweet and heavy.”

It is a muggy August morning and the air in the room is still. Well over half the year has gone by already, which is a worry. I wanted to make something of myself this year. There’s still time, I think. Definitely some time.

“It was June and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.”

“And the Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.”

As time goes on, you’ll understand. What lasts, lasts; what doesn’t, doesn’t. Time solves most things. And what time can’t solve, you have to solve yourself.

October, crisp, misty, golden October, when the light is sweet and heavy.

We’re in such a hurry most of the time we never get much chance to talk. The result is a kind of endless day-to-day shallowness, a monotony that leaves a person wondering years later where all the time went and sorry that it’s all gone.

This is the last leaf in the year’s book. Now I come to grief.

A year ago, everything was different . I wouldn’t have pictured myself like this , And now that I look back, I have realized that a year can do a lot to a person .

It was Autumn, the springtime of death. Rain spattered the rotting leaves, and a wild wind wailed. Death was singing in the shower. Death was happy to be alive.

Rain on roof outside window, gray light, deep covers and warm blankets. Rain and nip of autumn in air; nostalgia, itch to work better and bigger. That crisp edge of autumn.