January was humid and warm, and February fooled the forsythia: none of the townspeople had ever seen such weather.
The end of time as a shear layer moving alongside you, always one step ahead of memory. Yesterday the end of time was placid, an evenly washed sky like the surface of a lake. Today it’s warmer, with birdcalls.
Wie man wird, was man ist.
The past wears its old clothes, it won’t be resuited.