even the cold November Rain..."
Precisely. The quiteness of the autumn lull, the hammer of rains upon the roof, the fragrance of blooms and the chasms on the dead earth; all remain inceptors of awe, but with a fundamental and instrinsic property of temporariness clinging to them. Things would've suffered had nights ommitted themselves from the timeline fearing the days, or vice versa. The Spring doesn't weaken itself anticipating an opposite Winter. The quintessential authority with which elements exist in their respective durations of dog days; convey the qualities of little or no response to external stimuli.
All things learnt from, permanancy resides in nothing but Art. True pricelessness is in that painting you love, in that song which unravels from its depths something fresh each time you listen to it, and in that poem that connects itself to your heart through fibres of grace and warmth. One could go to the extent(without meaning any disregard) of calling Art as the only passion worth following; for true art is a part of you. Rather it's just you. Distinct and free.
The mind is a natural admirer of art, and hardly anything runs so freely in the veins to bladders of pleasure. Joy, is after all; what a thing of beauty gives you.
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