Life is a finite, ready-made task, an endurance no one wants to forgo before it’s time. We live out our lives the way the seasons follow one another with perfect aplomb. Human life has a spring, a red-hot summer, an autumn prolonged into a yawn, a winter calmative, flawlessly attuned to the calendar’s call. We have days as young as others are old, our Mays and our Novembers, good and evil moods, anathemas and prayers, crowing health and infirmities. No one finds life astounding, sacred spring sun surprising, autumn’s surliness a shock. Only a fool laments the passing of summer. The wise find calm blanketed by winter snow, silent forever, solitude unbroken by human noise.