The industrial world has arranged itself to be seasonless — the same temperature, the same produce, the same rhythm year-round — and has paid for this convenience with the loss of the natural calendar that once gave life its shape and texture. Nasreddin lived by the seasons not because he had no choice but because they told him where he was in the story, and the story needed that orientation. Without seasons, all days become the same day, repeated indefinitely.
Each step builds on the last.