The dreams are the skeleton of all reality. - James Salter

The summer has ended. The garden withers. The mornings become chill. I am thirty, I am thirty-four -the years turn dry as leaves.'

A light snow, a snow so faint and small-bodied that it seems nothing more than a manifestation of the cold.

He seems very mournful, but there is all the winter still to be survived. He no longer lives in years; he is down to seasons. Finally it will become single nights.