Autumn (Seasonal, #1)

by Ali Smith

It depends on how you’d define normal, Elisabeth said. Which would be different from how I’d define normal. Since we all live in relativity and mine at the moment is not and I suspect never will be the same as yours.

The days are still warm, the air in the shadows sharper. The nights are sooner, chillier, the light a little less each time. Dark at half past seven. Dark at quarter past seven, dark at seven.

It’s all right to forget, you know, he said. It’s good to. In fact, we have to forget things sometimes. Forgetting it is important. We do it on purpose. It means we get a bit of a rest.