Who knew that I could ever relate to the book Ethan Frome (by Edith Wharton)? "He had always been more sensitive than the people about him to the appeal of natural beauty... even in his unhappiest moments field and sky spoke to him with a deep and powerful persuasion. But hitherto the emotion had remained in him as a silent ache, veiling with sadness the beauty that evoked it. He did not even know whether he was the sole victim of this mournful privilege. Then he learned that one other spirit had trembled with the same touch of wonder... And there were other sensations, less definable but more exquisite, which drew them together with a shock of silent joy: the cold red of sunset behind winter hills, the flight of cloud-flocks over slopes of golden stubble, or the intensely blue shadows of hemlocks on sunlit snow... It seemed to Ethan that the art of definition could go no farther, and that words had at least been found to utter his secret soul." Ah, and then today... ^__^ I implore you: I loved how the sunset burned with passion at dusk today. Did you see it too? ... Or did you miss it?