One by one, fallen leaves scattered on the ground, forming a golden "path of gold."
Stepping on it, occasional "crunching" sounds made one feel so comfortable, as if walking on a carpet, without a single extraneous leaf, each a golden leaf, endlessly charming.
The joy of a bountiful harvest filled Vienna, where the family of Franz, out in the countryside, found themselves unable to tear themselves away from the beautiful scenery.
The poetic Franz was fervently writing, trying to leave behind a magnificent chapter for posterity. However, he lacked the natural talent, and the content he produced never satisfied him.
Too contrived, as if he was creating for the sake of creating, lacking the naturalness of "poetry and prose born of the heavens."
In this regard, Franz did have integrity; he never hired a ghostwriter, and naturally, he had no work he could proudly present.
