It is like “stepping out into some garden” you could say. Surely one should find such a scene as this. Could, rather; one certainly could stumble upon those few at their leisure and quite oblivious to you, the solitary traveler, and your unforeseen entry. Possibly you could liken it to a late midday tea party hosted by an eccentric with a monocle and a well-worn hat with a frayed brim. But you do not generally expect to see a single soul after following the white figure this far, especially after passing through that darkness that seemed like eternity and mere seconds at once. But here you are, very much the vagrant, uninvited and in a foreign place. Yet what is that knot within you that had originally brought you here? It is a contradiction. This is home, you say; for “advancing down the path with [your] eyes upon sky and branches [you] rapidly…see[] with amazement how grave they become; how majestically, as the breeze stirs them, they dispense with a dark flutter of the leaves charity, comprehension, absolution, and then, flinging themselves suddenly aloft, confound the piety of their aspect with a wild carouse.”