On Sundays he takes to the woods where every mortal step pushes countless acorns closer to a life of their own. Nor can he enumerate the odds, chances and possibilities that float past on their golden sails. Maybe this slow death (his slow death) occurs law by law. Surely no divine hand separates stem from twig, one by one, or his life one day at a time shorter. With his whole heart he has faith in winter, that monochromatic season … Read on…