I opened a sketchbook from one or two years back, and half of this spread fell out. (It was not a book I'd bound myself, thankyouverymuch.)
This year I'm nowhere near as stricken with seasonal depression, though I did scowl one mighty scowl when I walked Finn out to confront a delicate screen-wall of snow.
But two years ago, the waning light was cause for mourning and melodramatic poetry. Even then I'd still had enough peace, wrapped up cozy in the remnants of autumn, to write the reminder at the bottom: