In winter we had no dreams; it was too cold to consider anything but the brittle landscape outside and the frozen tributaries of our past within. In spring we were nervous and agitated, our thoughts scattered like cherry-blossom petals in the wind. Summer came and we were boldly confident, perhaps even arrogant; who could not succumb to the magical allure our our dreams? Soon we would be crowned king of the world! But now it is autumn: the streets are damp and the sky is gray and heavy; our dreams are vague and distant, specks of fading light on the horizon. We resign ourselves to dim afternoons and dead nights, filled with only the soft whisper of turning pages.