6.
"Hello, hello," says my dentist, bounding into the room and grasping my forearm with his warm hands. He spots my helmet on the window sill. "Still on your bike, I see." "Yes, that much is a good aspect of the weather!" "How's your mood these days," he asks; we're good friends and speak of such things. "I'm doing OK," I tell him. "You?" He shakes his head. "It's a struggle. When the leaves come off and it starts to get grey, in November, I can feel myself going down, down...I have to fight against it, every year. But we survive. Exercise every morning, good food, friends, love..." He's headed for Florida. I'm staying here; I'm used to it. But I think of those for whom these shortest days will be the only days, the last days, in this the dangerous season.
7.
Awake at five, thinking of those long gone, those far away, those nearby, those unknown.
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