The years get to be a carpet worn threadbare from the constant tread over the same section. Pay no attention; that’s just the darkness and the cold and the boredom and the months of the same looming ahead. Summer nights are just as dark as winter ones. The oft-trod path can be varied, and, even if not, the carpet, worn through, reveals mysteries beneath. There is no exact repetition. The long enduring is rewarded by an eventual arrival. It may even be an arrival at the place you’ve always been.
Still: A little warmer, please? A little more light?
