donald miller "through painted deserts"

Part One 

IT IS FALL HERE NOW, MY FAVORITE OF THE FOUR seasons. We get all four here, and they come at us under the doors, in through the windows. One morning you wake and need blankets; you take the fan out the window to see clouds that mist out by midmorning, only to reveal a naked blue coolness like God yawning.
  September is perfect in Oregon. [...]
  I come here, to Palio Coffee, for the big windows. If I sit outside, the sun gets on my computer screen, so I come inside, to this same table, and sit alongside the giant panes of glass. And it is like a movie out there, like a big screen of green, and today there is a man in shepherd's clothes, a hippie, all dirty, with a downed bike in the circle lawn across the street. He is eating bread from the bakery and drinking from a metal cup. He is tapping the cup against gus leg, sitting like a monk, all striped in fabric. I wonder if he is happy, his blanket strapped to the rack of his bike, his no home, his no job. I wonder if he has left it all because he hated it or because it hated him. It is true some do not do well with conventional life. They think outside things and can't make sense of following a line. They see no walls, only doors from open space to open space, supposedly, to the mind of God, or at least this is what we hope for them, and what they hope for themselves.