Sometimes it seems useless to tell every hour; they can all look the same. Passers-by pass, seasons pass, politicians pass. From time to time, the imagination has difficulty getting away from its own habits. Life goes on.
The day is getting shorter and shorter, the snow is becoming an early warning demon. People are preparing for winter. Another winter will pass, other passers-by will endure it, additional hours will vanish. It will take a few months to realize that the days have lengthened again. By then, the cottages will seem warmly silent.
Each hour is a blank page. And everything written on it keeps the spark of the present moment burning.