You are not who you were, my friend, nor who you'll be. For this is mortal life: this field of time, this flow of seasons, both of heart and heat. Although we one time ran as though freed from both the snow and the womb, we slowed to feel the heat, and watch the others, young, but growing; we welcomed autumn as a relief, then lived to see and feel the cold, that most predictable and surprising of our enemies. And while the spring and summer of you Still live, it is only when you are inside, Beside the fire, that you can feel enough Residual warmth to fully recall what it felt like. You are not who you were, nor me, nor anyone else: But there is beauty in all of it, so long as We do not require any season to be like any other.