Early spring is the time for vigorous change, a preparation for the heat-driven oppression that is to come.

In winter, I plot and plan. In spring, I move.

You can never change the scenery that surrounds you. You can run from the fists that pound you, but you cannot escape your feelings. I've crawled every sewer from here to there and I've never done it. And I burn silently.

Change is hard, but change is good.

August brings into sharp focus and a furious boil everything I've been listening to in the late spring and summer.

I have come to regard November as the older, harder man's October. I appreciate the early darkness and cooler temperatures. It puts my mind in a different place than October. It is a month for a quieter, slightly more subdued celebration of summer's death as winter tightens its grip.