This morning, autumn

This morning, autumn. I feel my life has been cut so many different ways, like a piece of cloth that is simultaneously every garment that could be worked from it. Some days pass, others advance; some hearken and some remember. But the topical reality of autumn seems to infuse -- even undermine -- all other realities. Such is its potency, it is akin to my life becoming, for the entirety of one season, a single shirt with imperishable creases.

"I thought I was walking to work, but in fact I am walking to autumn," I decided, thinking nothing and unsurprised therefore by any conclusion. "Yet work is on the way to autumn, so I shall stop by there as well."