I was recently asked how I perceived a year. It was a game told by a colleague who had entertained her family and friends. There were four or five of us who answered, and the answers were very varied. Some see the year as just boxes in a calendar; others see it as a path, a horizon. My response was honestly circumspect: I don’t see it.
The leaves are starting to fall here. We never tire of announcing, every year, the beginning of autumn. At this stage, the decline may seem philosophical. The air seems to be at the peak of its breath, already imbued with soft, dense juices, like the one in these rooms where the dying fall asleep.