A week and a half ago it was eighty-two degrees outside, and summer. Now it’s fifty-seven degrees and autumn. I don’t like autumn. Yes of course, the colors are nice, but they’re the colors of necrosis. In the late autumn of my life I am already confronted often enough with death and decay, I don’t need dying leaf debris to remind me of them. Autumn smells like a nursing home. Give me spring, a new beginning, to compensate. I also hate the short, cold days; and Santa Claus and Christmas don’t exactly make me jump for joy. If I sound like an old grump, isn’t that what this diary is for? It lets
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