...And autumn can also be black. She passes through the soul like a dark woman in a hood, leaving a vile cold trail of not sadness, not despondency, but melancholy. The blackest uncontrollable melancholy. Deep, like the icy chasms of the cosmic ocean. No, it’s not even dullness – it’s much worse. This is the absence of grayness. This is the absence of everything. Deadness, despair, empty thoughts, dead feelings. When the last lights of golden splendor are already burning out, black autumn comes. But you still breathe, you still believe, because winter will definitely come...