Sometimes something gets stronger, shortly before it dies.
It rebels against the end, no one would have guessed.
Like the leaves. Look at the leaves.
Or like the sentiments of a year that is counting down the weeks. They creep over my back, while I stand looking over the Oslo Fjord, while I swish through the bright yellow dots in Slottsparken, while I squint at the sun.
I watch the last revolution of the trees; their end is marvelous.