I woke up cold; my thin cotton blanket proved insufficient against the fall night - turned on my left side, picked up the Stephen Mitchell's Rilke, which I keep in the pillow of books next to my head, and read these lines from "Autumn Day" again:

Whoever has no house now, will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening, and wander the boulevards, up and down, restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.