Beautiful Melancholia

In the world of melancholia it is always autumn, never cold enough for falling leaves to bare the trees, never warm enough for birds. As each leaf turns to brown and gently cascades to the floor, so another is born in its place; it too will turn, and so the forest remains in a constant state of decay, and growth, and decay. The weary traveler may take refuse here, for it is beautiful, glowing gold to the touch of the sun and the warm water light of afternoon, when one may stop to rest in the shade of the trees and the earthly smells of the undergrowth.