After the heat began to wane at summer’s end, it sometimes happened in late afternoon that certain softer hues in the broad sky and certain strokes of cold breezes already signaled the coming of autumn. There was still no discolouring or falling of leaves, nor yet that vague anxiety we naturally feel when see death all around us, since we know ours will also come. But there was a sort of flagging of all effort, a vague slumber fallen over the last signs of action. Ah, with so much sad indifference in these afternoons, the autumn begins in us before it begins in things.
— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet