The seasons long for each other, like men and women, in order that they may be cured of their excesses.
Spring, if it lingers more than a week beyond its span, starts to hunger for summer to end the days of perpetual promise. Summer in its turn soon begins to sweat for something to quench its heat, and the mellowest of autumns will tire of gentility at last, and ache for a quick sharp frost to kill its fruitfulness.
Even winter— the hardest season, the most implacable—dreams, as February creeps on, of the flame that will presently melt it away. Everything tires with time, ad starts to seek some opposition, to save it from itself.
So August gave way to September and there were few complaints.
The Hellbound Heart, Clive Barker
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