The cold of course and the days that, like cheap cotton, shrink at the first sign of hardship. I love walking when the morning shines its fine light on us. I have my steps for myself, my solitary rhythm thus marking this adult life which has dug so few furrows.
I like to silently shell out the roundness of my breathing. I often wander around. My thoughts, like yours, are often useless, at least we will never have the intelligence to understand all the automated machinery that drives us to dreams and whims.
The cold, of course. The cold and a feeling of standstill, loneliness, impossibilities. My path may be predictable even if nothing is written in the sky. My gaze is on the leaves that are beginning to die, I bend my spine. The road continues.