When summer wakes up in a gloomy mood, with a livid shiver in the air, a slightly lurid sky which fights with the sunrise pink nuances, it means it’s nearly time for this season to pack up the baggage and to leave for nearly another whole years.

Nevertheless there is in this melancholy fading a captivating beauty, more intimate and deeper, like the one we can see on the still beautiful, but a little tired face of a mature woman who had been too shining attractive, but nearly stereotyped, in her young years.

I don’t know rationally why, but I picture in my mind spring and summer as female characters and autumn and winter as male ones.