the summer days were beginning to take on a different texture, things drying up and diminishing, and one felt it, one felt it just as the dogs felt it, the sadness of the passing days, the melancholy of autumn approaching, it was only the strangeness peculiar to the time of year, the disruption, the death one felt in the air and in oneself, the swift contraction of the days acting as a reminder of all the things one had overlooked, one had forgotten, and now the time for those things had passed, it was too late, far, far too late.
