Of man, it is oft said that only during the night does the racing static of the mind rest. And, in the darkness, man finds the better parts of himself apparent in the cool silence of cascading moonlight. As if before a crystalline expanse of water, the soul ultimately gazes upon itself, reflected with all the simplicity and solace that only the immutable elegance of the expanding cosmos is capable of.

The wind stirs in the trees, and in their gentle sway we are reminded of their living presence.

Oh, to be such a thing, such a tree! To stand firm and resolute with eager arms reaching for the sun!

To live so… slow. To be so…wise.  
   To look beneath me with such an unshakeable fondness for it! Alas, such a peace is so beyond our comprehension that it would perhaps destroy that which seeks it to calm. But just as man cannot comprehend the wisdom of the tree, neither can the tree understand the melancholic beauty it is to be a man, in the dark of the night, in the cascade of moonlight, as the wind stirs the trees, his soul gazing into eternal oblivion. For that is the domain of man.