Even sitting in a cozy cafe, I can feel it in my hair. Too many people. There are too many cars. I want to hide from all this and dissolve in the book I just bought. There is a different life, different weather. It has its own autumn. And even a cup of coffee cannot bring you back to reality. I live different, their life. And I forget my problems. Trying to stop collecting my melancholy. The noise of the city is frightening. Every day I see hundreds of faces I don't know. Some of which, settling in my subconscious, connecting with the heroes of the books, are transformed in my fevered brain, and quite realistically come to me in a dream. And then, after a while, I cannot understand how I know the face of a man who is just standing next to me at the bus stop. The power of my imagination is limitless. I am sorry to step on the leaves under my feet. They are so unhappy. Still alive. Their old age came imperceptibly, along with the fall. So loved by me. I understand that you cannot get used to anything too much.

I wonder if the trees remember their last year's leaves? Probably not. Bad memories shorten life. And trees live for centuries. You need to learn from them resilience.

I want to learn to laugh when the wind blows in my face, when it rains, when it's cold to the core. I look out the window at my autumn, at my trees and smile. I feel like I'm getting stronger.