I noticed that every year the summer, which in childhood seemed to last an entire little life, everything goes through faster. And every time it becomes not that more bleak and more insipid, that is ... Fewer summer colors have time to catch looped at work and everyday life captured the subtleties of the political twists and turns. Probably, this is aging. I feel the approach of autumn, not only in nature but also in the shower.
And, still, I love autumn. For some reason, just remember the inspirational days of "Indian summer" when the sun shining on webs, has not yet fallen leaves on the trees, as if lit from within, the morning frost on the grass enters into battle with the sun, almost more summer heat, from which air is simultaneously moroztsevato -sogrevayuschim. In those days, something long forgotten comes to life in the soul, there is a lump in my throat and I want to write poetry.
Yes, I know, followed by light and heat enough time to grim skeletal trees, snotty drizzle and the frozen black cereal underfoot. And, to find in that at least something good, you will need to work hard. But I will try.
And while there is still time, I try to escape from the decadent thoughts and plunge headlong into the timeless stream carrying the last summer days.